Clark pauses only long enough to think about it, and to consider the man in front of him: Bruce, out of the batsuit, let alone the heavy armouring of the version he wore to battle with him, all scratched up silver like he'd welded himself into it. Not long enough, though, for Bruce to have to prompt him again, Clark approaching like he's stepping up onto a stage, cameras all on him. He has, after all, never done this before. Even Diana had been different (with a hair toss, an arched eyebrow, let's go, and they went).

But, settling into the form he's been shown, he centres his balance, and swings a punch.

He doesn't condescend to slow down by a lot, trusting in Bruce's ability to counter. Being the kind of man whose heart is worn on his sleeve (or in a big S, on his chest), a lack of murderous intent and malice takes the viciousness out of it, anyway.

(Or desperation, as with Zod, in the end, and as with Doomsday, desperate to end something and unable to make it happen as fast as he would like.)