The house feels wrong before she even reaches your door.

Lois pauses halfway down the hallway, fingers tightening around the coffee mug she forgot she was holding. The air is too still. No music bleeding under the door. No pacing. No restless shifting of weight across floorboards.

She tells herself not to overreact.

She’s a journalist. She follows facts, not fear.

Still — she sets the mug down on the hallway table and knocks.

“Hey. It’s me.”

Her voice is steady. Casual. The way she uses it before interviews — calm enough to invite truth.

No answer.

She tries the handle.

The door opens too easily.

The bed is made.

Not neatly. Just… finished. Like someone trying not to leave fingerprints on their own life.

Lois steps inside slowly, eyes scanning the room the way she scans a crime scene. Instinctively cataloguing: open drawer. Missing jacket. Empty shelf space. Window cracked slightly at the latch.

Her breath shortens.

“No,” she murmurs under it.

She moves to the desk. That’s when she sees it.

An envelope.

Her name isn’t on it. None of their names are. Just left in the center like evidence waiting to be processed.

Her fingers don’t shake when she picks it up.

They only start shaking when she reads.

Each word lands like a punch she can’t deflect. Apologies. Explanations. That careful tone — trying not to hurt anyone while quietly breaking yourself apart.

Lois lowers into the desk chair without meaning to.

She had told herself this was a “super” issue.

Something for Clark and Jon to navigate. Kryptonian legacy. Power dynamics. Emotional fallouts from aging too fast and carrying too much.

She had watched you retreat and assumed it was about them.

She hadn’t asked enough questions.

She presses the letter flat against the desk, smoothing it like it’s wrinkled. Like she can undo it with pressure.

“You don’t leave,” she whispers to the empty room. “You don’t just—”

Her voice cracks. She stops. Closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, they are sharp.

Focused.

Lois stands.

She moves fast now — checking the closet. The bathroom. The window latch. She leans out, scanning the yard, analyzing ground impressions, tire tracks, the direction dust has been disturbed.

Reporter brain takes over.

“What did you take?” she mutters, already reconstructing the timeline. “Backpack. Boots. Phone charger missing. No smashed window. Voluntary.”

Her jaw tightens.

“You planned this.”

There’s anger there — but not at you.

At herself.

She walks back into the hallway, letter in hand. Clark will hear her heartbeat change before she even speaks. Jon will feel the shift in the house.

But for a moment, she stands alone.

“You thought we wouldn’t understand,” she says quietly, staring at the page. “You thought disappearing was easier.”

She exhales slowly, steadying herself.

“No. Not my kid.”

Lois Lane does not panic. She investigates.

She moves toward the stairs, already calculating bus routes, train schedules, who you might trust, where you’d go if you didn’t want to be found by someone who can hear across the planet.

If you wanted to hide from Supers…

You wouldn’t stay obvious.

Her grip tightens around the letter.

“I should’ve asked,” she admits under her breath. “I should’ve pushed.”

She had stayed quiet. Let Clark handle it. Told herself she didn’t understand the super-side of it.

But pain isn’t alien.

And loneliness isn’t Kryptonian.

By the time she reaches the living room, her fear has hardened into determination.

“You don’t get to vanish,” she says firmly to the empty house. “Not without a fight.”

Her eyes flick once toward the sky — where she knows Clark is listening.

But this?

This isn’t just a job for Supers.

This is hers.

And she’s already on the case.