"Hey, fantasma !" she called out. "You're not Superman. You're the echo of a dream he had after a bad burrito. Time to wake up."
"Hey, Knockoff Kent!" Lois shouted. "You missed a spot!"
La Catrina wiped her knife on her jacket. "See? Ghosts just want to be remembered. Even the ugly ones." Mis aventuras con Superman 2x3
"Hopefully not," he said, sighing. "Though I have to admit… he was right about one thing. I do hesitate. I do doubt."
Lois punched my arm. But she was smiling. "Hey, fantasma
She chanted in Spanish—old words, the kind my grandmother used to whisper before lighting candles. The clone froze. Not from cold, but from confusion. His mercury eyes flickered. For one second, he looked terrified.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the back of a lowrider hearse, parked outside the Nexus Spire. The driver's seat held the most terrifying woman in Metropolis: , aka Elena Diaz, the punk-rock bruja of the Barrio Below. She wore a lace skull mask, combat boots, and a leather jacket painted with marigolds. Time to wake up
"That," I said.
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