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Chapter 14

Kal sat at the small desk in his hotel room, fingers drumming once against the edge of his phone. The mid-morning light filtered in through the curtains—unseen, but still felt. The city was already moving outside, a distant buzz of traffic and footsteps and elevator dings. He hadn't touched his coffee yet.

The decision had already been made. Now it was just a matter of following through.

He inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, and dialed the number he hadn't called in over two years.

Dr. Bernard Klein.

It rang twice before a chipper voice answered.

"Dr. Klein's office, how can I help you?"

Kal cleared his throat, his voice steady despite the nerves winding quietly in his chest. "Yes, this is… I'm calling on behalf of Superman. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Klein."

There was a beat of silence, and when the receptionist spoke again, her voice was more cautious. "I'm sorry, did you say—?"

"I know it's unexpected," Kal said quickly. "But he's requested to speak with Dr. Klein directly. It's… important."

Another pause, then the soft click of hold music.

He waited.

Thirty seconds later, the music cut out.

"Superman?" Dr. Klein's voice was as familiar as it was disarming—nervous, curious, kind. "Is that really you?"

Kal swallowed. "Yes. But I'm not calling about a rescue. I need your help… for something else."

Dr. Klein's voice was careful, tinged with disbelief. "You… you sound different. Are you all right?"

Kal hesitated. "I'm not in danger. But I'm not who I used to be."

There was a pause, the sound of shifting papers and a faint tap—maybe of glasses being set down.

"I see," Klein said slowly. "Is this… connected to what happened two years ago? When you disappeared?"

"Yes," Kal said. "I didn't just vanish. I was injured. Badly."

"Are you hurt now?"

"No. Not in that way." Kal exhaled. "But I've lost something important. And I need your help to understand what's left."

Another long pause. Then Dr. Klein's voice softened. "Come in. I'll clear the lab this afternoon. You'll have complete privacy."

Kal hesitated. "I won't be coming in the suit. I'll be in street clothes. Name's Kallen Ellis."

Another pause. "Understood," Klein said, his tone shifting slightly. "I'll meet you at the front desk and make sure no one asks questions."

"Thank you," Kal said, the tension in his shoulders easing, just slightly.

"I'll see you at two o'clock."

He ended the call and sat still for a beat, the hotel room buzzing faintly with morning life just outside the window. The decision was made. Now all he had to do was follow through.

He picked up the phone again, this time dialing a more familiar number.

"Lois Lane."

"It's me," Kal said. "I'm not going to be able to meet up this afternoon. Something came up."

A brief pause. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just… something I need to do. I'll fill you in tonight, if that's alright."

"Of course," she said quickly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I am," Kal replied. And this time, it was mostly true. "Talk later?"

"Later," she said, and the call ended without fanfare—but not without weight.

Kal slipped the phone back into its cradle and turned toward the closet. Kal took his time getting ready. Just jeans, a collared shirt, a weathered jacket, and the familiar sweep of his cane ahead of him as he made his way to the lab.

He kept his head down as he walked through the lobby of STAR Labs. No one gave him a second glance. A man with a cane wasn't remarkable. In this moment, he wasn't Superman. He was Kallen Ellis.

Dr. Klein was already waiting when Kal entered the lobby of STAR Labs.

"Mr. Ellis," he said with a polite nod, his voice carefully neutral. "Come with me. My lab is just down the hall."

Kal followed him further into the building. He heard the sliding doors open as they entered into the lab—familiar in layout, but different in feel. Less bustle, more containment. The hum of equipment, the scent of metal and ozone. Klein locked the door behind them.

"Place is clear," he said. "You can relax."

Kal exhaled slowly. "Thank you."

Dr. Klein gestured toward a padded examination bench and pulled up a chair beside it. "So," he began, "let's start with what you can tell me."

Kal found a lab stool with his cane then sat, hands resting loosely on his knees. "As you know, I haven't been active for the past two years. On my last rescue… a weapon emitted a concentrated burst of ultraviolet light directly into my eyes. I was blinded instantly. At the time, I assumed it would heal. Given enough time, I thought it might reverse itself."

Dr. Klein's brows drew together, concern evident. "But it didn't."

Kal shook his head. "No."

"Has there been any improvement? Even partial vision?"

"Nothing," Kal said quietly. "No light. No shapes. Just… darkness."

"Were any of your other powers affected?"

"My hearing's still there, so is invulnerability. But x-ray vision, microscopic vision—those are gone. I haven't tested the others. Not seriously."

"Why not?"

Kal's voice was dry. "Because the last time I misjudged my own strength, I cracked a support beam in my kitchen. I can't afford to guess wrong."

"Alright. Then let's not guess."

Dr. Klein set the clipboard aside. "Kal, I think we should test the rest of your powers. Not full-strength," he added quickly, "just enough to establish some baselines. You've already lost two abilities we know of. Let's find out what's still functioning."

Kal tensed slightly. "Doctor…"

"I know you're nervous," Klein said gently. "But I'll be careful. Everything is calibrated for low-stress testing. And it's better to find out here, in a safe place, than out there."

Kal nodded once, reluctantly. "Alright. Where do we start?"

Klein gestured to a reinforced panel mounted behind a blast shield. "Heat vision first. Focus on the beeping target—just enough to trigger the sensation."

Kal turned his face toward the sound. It took effort—more effort than he expected—but eventually, he felt a flicker of warmth behind his eyes. A heartbeat later, the sensor chirped once.

"Minimal output," Klein said, noting the result. "Residual energy, but the beam's attenuated. Like a pilot light. No risk of damage, but not operationally useful."

"Figures," Kal murmured.

"Let's try freezing breath," Klein said, wheeling out a small mist-filled chamber lined with temperature-reactive strips. "Just aim straight ahead—again, light effort."

Kal exhaled slowly. The chamber fogged. One of the test strips turned pale blue.

Klein looked up, mildly impressed. "Still functional. Limited area of effect, but the temperature drop is measurable."

Next came the strength test. Klein guided Kal to a braced platform with a spring-loaded resistance rig.

"I want you to grip this handle and slowly apply pressure. Stop the second you feel strain."

Kal wrapped his fingers around the grip. The machine clicked softly as the resistance built. After a moment, he stopped.

Klein blinked at the reading. "That was about 60% of baseline strength, assuming the values we'd logged before. Controlled. Impressive, given how long you've been avoiding using it."

"I've had to be careful," Kal said. "Everything in my life depends on precision now. I don't get second chances if I overdo it."

Klein gave a small nod, visibly thoughtful. "It's clear you're holding back—intentionally. You're managing your output constantly, which tells me your physical control is still intact. You're not dangerous. You're just… cautious."

Kal looked away slightly. "I have to be."

After a beat, Klein gestured toward the far end of the lab, where a padded section of wall had been rigged with motion sensors. "One last test. I'd like to get a read on your speed—reflexive more than full-speed. Just a short burst forward. Stop before you reach the wall."

Kal moved into position. When Klein gave the word, he pushed forward—just enough to feel the blur return to his limbs.

The sensors chirped again. Klein checked the output.

"Still there," he said, half to himself. "Dampened. But still there."

Kal returned to the bench slowly, his breath even but strained.

"You're suppressing your abilities," Klein said softly, "even now."

Kal's jaw tightened. "I'm managing them."

"No," Klein said, more gently. "That kind of caution doesn't come from control. It comes from fear. And I don't think that fear is all physical."

Kal didn't answer right away. His shoulders remained squared, but his posture had shifted—just enough to show the weight he still carried.

Klein gave him a moment before adding, "What you're doing—functioning like this—it's incredible. You've built a system around uncertainty and still maintained stability. But Kal… it's okay to want more than that. It's okay to hope."

Kal let the words sit between them.

Then, finally: "If there's a way to fly again… I need to know."

Klein nodded. "Then we'll figure it out."

He stood, crossing the lab with quiet efficiency. Kal listened to the subtle scrape of drawers opening, the click of glass and metal. When Klein returned, he set a tray of varied items on the table: small weights, polished stones, different metals, plastic tubing, and a few rubberized disks.

"These won't hurt," Klein said. "I just want to run some basic calibration tests. Spatial awareness, material differentiation… you don't have to touch anything, just tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary."

Kal's brow creased. "Doc… I told you. I'm blind. There's nothing to notice."

Klein didn't flinch. "Humor me."

Kal sighed and nodded once. "Alright."

Klein placed the first object—a thin copper plate—somewhere on the table.

"Can you point to where that is?"

Kal remained still for a moment. Then slowly, he extended a hand, index finger hovering uncertainly in the air. His brows furrowed, and after another few seconds, he lowered his hand and shook his head. "Nothing."

"That's okay," Klein said easily, marking something on his clipboard. "Let's try again."

Another object. Another pause.

And then—

Kal's head tilted faintly. He raised his hand and stopped just above the tabletop, about four inches left of center. His hand didn't touch the surface, but his fingers hovered—confident, uncertain, and somehow both at once.

"Here," he said.

Klein didn't respond immediately. Then: "You're right."

Kal's posture stiffened. "I didn't feel it with my hand."

"What did you feel?"

Kal was silent for a long moment. "I don't know. Just… pressure. A kind of pull."

Klein's pen paused above the clipboard.

"Have you noticed anything like that before today?" he asked, voice quiet now. Measured.

Kal hesitated, then nodded once. "Lately. Sometimes when I'm working with maps. Rubber bands, labeled pins. Sometimes I know where things are—before I touch them."

Klein didn't speak right away. Then he placed another object, and the testing resumed—with clearer results each time.

Finally, after what felt like hours of 'looking' for objects, Kal couldn't keep his anxiety at bay any longer. "Dr. Klein?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. Sorry. It appears that you are or have developed a new ability."

"Pardon?"

Klein tapped his pen against the clipboard, his voice growing more focused now. "It's not sight. But it's something. The way you're reacting—the way you know where objects are without touching them—it's consistent. Repeatable. That tells me this isn't a fluke."

Kal's brow furrowed. "So what is it?"

Klein picked up one of the metal objects again, turning it over in his hand. "The closest comparison we have in nature is magnetoreception—a sense found in certain migratory birds, turtles, even some mammals. It allows them to perceive Earth's magnetic field. They use it to navigate, sometimes across entire continents."

"You think I'm… navigating like a bird?" Kal asked, deadpan.

Klein gave a dry chuckle. "I think you're doing something even more complex. You're not just detecting polarity or direction—you're reading spatial pattern—density, material composition, subtle field shifts, maybe even motion."

Kal sat in stunned silence.

"You're perceiving the world through a form of electromagnetic sensitivity," Klein continued. "Like a living compass, but more advanced. It's adaptive," Klein said. "Your body, your brain—they've compensated for the loss of vision by amplifying other inputs. This isn't a side effect. It's evolution. You're learning to see again, just in a different language."

Kal didn't answer. Not right away. He just sat there, turning the words over in his mind like pieces of a puzzle he didn't know he was holding.

Finally, he said, "Can it be refined?"

"I think so," Klein said. "With practice. Calibration. If we can understand the parameters—what triggers it, how it maps in your mind—we might even be able to help you use it for flight. Or rescue. Whatever you need."

Kal exhaled slowly, the weight of two years shifting in his chest—not gone, but lighter. "How do we start?"