Disclaimers and author's notes are at the beginning of Chapter 1.
Chapter 1Chapter 2The envelope still sat on his desk two days later, untouched since the moment his fingers had first traced the raised lettering. He wasn't sure why he hadn't tossed it. He had no plans of attending, no real reason to step back into that world—his world, once. If he went, he would still be Kal Ellis. That wasn't the problem. No one there would see anything more than a journalist from Oklahoma. But he would know. He would sit in that room, surrounded by the life he left behind, and pretend it didn't matter.
And wasn't that what he'd spent the past two years trying to avoid? It wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it.
And yet, the envelope remained.
He hadn't thrown it away, hadn't called Anderson to tell him he wasn't going, hadn't even said the words out loud. Instead, it sat there, an unspoken challenge, a question he wasn't ready to answer. More than once, his fingers had drifted toward it, tracing the embossed seal, feeling the weight of it—more than just cardstock and ink, but something heavier, something inescapable.
The shrill ring of his office phone cut through the quiet, jolting him from his thoughts. He tensed, then reached for the receiver, pressing it to his ear with a measured exhale. "Ellis."
"Tell me you're at least considering it."
Anderson's voice was casual, but Kal knew him well enough to hear the expectation beneath it. He ran a hand over his jaw before answering, his tone carefully neutral. "Considering it," he admitted, though he wasn't sure that was true.
There was a pause on the other end, a soft exhale before Anderson spoke again. "Look, Ellis. You don't have to make a speech, you don't have to enjoy it, hell, you don't even have to smile. But you wrote something damn good. You deserve to be in that room."
Deserving.
A funny word.
There was a time he might have believed it, a time when his work had felt like a piece of something bigger, when recognition had been about the impact, not the name attached to it. But now? The idea of standing on that stage, accepting an award under a name that still didn't feel like his, in a city he had spent months convincing himself was no longer his home—it felt like tempting fate.
He hadn't asked for this. Hadn't wanted it.
Once, being recognized for his work had meant something. It had been about the truth, about exposing what needed to be seen. But now, the idea of standing on that stage—of people looking at him, wondering—felt like stepping back into a world he had no claim to anymore.
And yet, in the end, he didn't say no.
Kal stood in the center of his bedroom, suitcase open at his feet. The space was quiet—almost too quiet. His fingers skimmed along the edges of the neatly folded shirts on the bed, counting them off in his head, making sure everything was where it should be. A suit. Dress shoes. Tie—begrudgingly.
He hated ties.
The whole thing felt performative. Ceremonial. Like slipping into a version of himself that didn't quite fit anymore.
Still, he packed it. Deliberate, methodical. He didn't have the luxury of winging it these days. Every movement had to be planned, every item accounted for.
He had written a speech—reluctantly. Just in case. Anderson had insisted, and Kal hadn’t had the energy to argue. It sat folded in the inside pocket of his jacket, a few short paragraphs. Not because he wanted the spotlight—but because he couldn’t afford to be unprepared if the moment came.
He zipped the suitcase closed and stood there a moment longer, one hand resting on the handle, the other brushing against the smooth curve of his cane.
This wasn't a trip he wanted to take. It was one he had to.
By the time Kal found his seat on the plane, he was already tired. Not physically. Just… worn thin. From the crowds, the noise, the subtle tension in every step as he made his way through the terminal. He had planned it all out—boarding time, seating, even the timing of the security check—but that didn't make it comfortable. He had to ask for help twice just to get to the gate, and every time he heard a pause before someone spoke to him, he could feel their uncertainty.
He hated that. Hated how often people hesitated around him now.
The overhead fans hummed as passengers shuffled past his row, jostling carry-ons and exchanging pleasantries with the flight attendants. Kal sat stiffly, cane folded beneath the seat, backpack tucked between his feet. His fingers tightened on the armrest every time someone brushed by too close. He felt their eyes on him, even if he couldn't see them.
He didn't like being this out of control.
There'd been a time when flying meant something else entirely. Freedom. Focus. A kind of clarity no one else could understand. Flying had once been instinctive—a rush of air, the sensation of movement bending to his will.
Now?
Now flying was turbulence he couldn't anticipate. Direction he couldn't track. Sometimes, when the plane banked, he felt something shift—not inside the cabin, but deeper. Like the air itself was laced with orientation. A faint current he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sound. It wasn’t pressure. But it was… something. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. Maybe it was nothing, but the feeling kept returning. A cabin full of strangers, each sound magnified in the darkness he lived with every day.
The hum of the engine became a low, droning pulse in the back of his skull. He tracked it automatically, more out of habit than curiosity. The flight attendant stopped to check on him before takeoff, her voice overly careful. He gave her the same calm, measured tone he always used, and she moved on.
He hated that tone, too. He used it when he wanted people to think he was fine.
The captain's voice crackled through the speakers, announcing the flight path and destination. "Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be arriving in Metropolis in approximately two hours…"
The name landed like a punch. Metropolis.
Kal's fingers flexed against the textured fabric of the armrest. He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting to the space around him, but it didn't help.
He hadn't been back since the accident. Since the day the light went out and everything changed.
This wasn't a homecoming. It was an obligation. A mistake, maybe.
The plane jerked forward, taxiing down the runway. Kal leaned back, jaw tight, trying to breathe through the sudden lurch in his stomach. The wheels lifted, the cabin tilted, and gravity did its work.
He used to know exactly how fast he was moving. How high. Which direction. Now, he had only his instincts and the occasional shift in pressure to go by—and it wasn't enough. Not for someone who used to be the flight path.
The moment the plane reached cruising altitude, Kal exhaled slowly, hands resting flat on his thighs. The pressurization made his ears pop. His other senses tried to compensate, reaching for something familiar, but there was nothing here that grounded him.
The seatbelt buckle felt like a restraint. Not a safety feature—just another reminder that he wasn't who he used to be.
Someone across the aisle started a conversation with the person next to them. He couldn't make out the words over the hum of the engine, but the cadence of casual travel talk grated against his nerves.
It felt so normal. All of it. As if the rest of the world hadn't shifted beneath his feet.
He turned his head toward the window, though it offered him nothing now. Still, it was something. A direction. A fixed point in a journey that felt otherwise unmoored.
He couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability. Of being strapped into a metal cylinder thousands of feet in the air with no way to orient himself. No way to reach for control.
He folded his hands together in his lap and let out a breath through his nose. Controlled. Quiet. There was no reason to let it show.
But he hated this.
He hated flying blind.
And he hated even more that it wasn't a metaphor anymore.
"Flight smooth?" Anderson's voice cut through the hum of the lobby as Kal stepped into the hotel.
"As smooth as it gets when you're pretending not to exist," Kal replied, setting his bag down with a quiet thud.
Anderson chuckled. "That bad, huh?"
Kal didn't answer.
"You got your speech ready?"
"I'm not planning to win."
"Didn't ask if you were." Anderson's tone turned thoughtful. "But in case you do, I'd rather not watch you stand there and improvise something moody and philosophical."
Kal smirked faintly. "Then you're safe. I don't do moody in public."
"Sure you don't." Anderson patted his shoulder once before heading to the elevator. "Get some rest. You'll need it."
Alone in his room, Kal sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the edge of the keycard he still held in his hand. The room was clean, generic, nothing memorable—but the air carried a scent of faint cologne and too much carpet cleaner, and
somehow, it triggered something.
A memory. Not sharp, but clear enough.
Lois laughing in the hotel hallway two years ago, her heels clicking on the tile as she turned to look over her shoulder—her voice rising above the crowd, teasing him about something stupid he'd said.
He hadn't heard her laugh in person since then.
Kal exhaled and set the keycard aside.
An hour later, Kal sat on the edge of the hotel bed, still fully dressed.
The suit hung in the closet. The tie lay draped across the nightstand, untouched. His cane rested nearby, always within reach.
The room was quiet, save for the muffled sound of the city outside—distant horns, a car alarm somewhere too far to matter, the occasional rumble of a train. Familiar sounds, but they didn't settle him the way they used to. If anything, they felt hollow. There'd been a time when sound was just one layer of awareness. Now it was everything.
A siren rose in the distance, sharp and fleeting. His ears tracked it on instinct.
But that was someone else's job now.
He laid back on the bed, arm draped across his chest. He couldn't sleep, not really. His mind circled too many things—what he would say if he won, what Lois would think if she saw him, whether coming here had been a mistake.
A beat of memory slipped through. Lois, not long before the accident, yelling across the bullpen about a source who'd gone cold. Her voice rising above the newsroom noise. Clark had teased her. Kal didn't laugh now.
He turned onto his side, facing the dark.
There were a hundred reasons not to be here. He just couldn't decide if Lois was one of them—or the reason he'd come at all.
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Where is Lois? 
