A woman in her 30s—blue eyes, blonde hair pulled into a professional bun—walked through the rows of a closed parking garage, heels echoing against the concrete. She clutched her purse, but not out of fear—just caution. She was ready for anything.
She approached a man leaning against a black Mercedes. His long, messy hair framed a scarred face. When she got within a few feet, he lifted his head, tired eyes meeting hers.
"We got a rat that needs exterminatin'."
She stopped, heels clicking one last time before silence.
"Who?" she asked, tone steady.
"A kid. Sixteen, name is Jack Carter boss calls him Jackie. Don't underestimate him—little fucker cost us a whole operation and took out four of our guys."
"Sounds authentic."
"Yeah. Cops got to him before we could. Boss already took care of his family... and his girl. He's gotta be broken by now. Should be easy cake for you, yeah?"
"We'll see. You said the cops have him?" She arched an eyebrow. "So I need to operate inside the precinct? That raises my fee."
The man exhaled sharply.
"Just get it done. Don't worry about the so-called 'funds'."
She turned and walked away, heels picking up their rhythm again, vanishing into the dim garage.
Once she was out of sight, the man pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and pressed it to his ear.
"Sir. It's being handled."
A voice replied on the other end, slow and satisfied.
"Goooood. Jackie's been such a problem the last couple weeks. Wish I'd gotten my hands on him personally. Oh well—call me when it's done."
Click.
Meanwhile, Jack sat in an empty interview room. Head down. Hands cuffed to the metal table. Drenched in thought. Simmering rage beneath layers of exhaustion and grief.
The door opened.
Two detectives stepped in—early 30s, both carrying that hardened, professional aura.
The woman led. Brunette. Sharp-eyed but empathetic. The man wore no jacket, just a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal faded tattoos. Blue-eyed. Blonde. Hairline receding. He carried a condescending air like it was standard issue.
As the woman opened her mouth to speak, the door opened again.
Another woman entered—late 40s or early 50s.
"I'm Melanie Richards, child protective services. I'll be attending this interview."
The woman detective nodded and gestured to the wall-length one-way mirror.
An officer entered, placed a chair for Melanie, then quietly exited.
The door clicked shut.
The woman detective looked back to Jack.
"Let's begin."
Jack didn't look up. Didn't care. The woman continued anyway:
"I'm Detective Nina Cross. This is my partner, Detective Declan Rourke. We'll be asking you a few questions."
Rourke picked up the thin file on the table, flipping it open with an air of boredom.
"Jack Carter. Sixteen. Abducted. Escaped with three other minors..."
He paused, glancing at the broken boy sitting across from him, then kept reading.
"Then you burst into a crime scene, stepped on an officer of the law, hugged your deceased girlfriend, and contaminated the evidence. Before that, you fled another crime scene where your entire family and half your neighborhood were murdered..."
He flicked his eyes up again, almost amused.
"In a red BMW you stole after crashing your Civic. Says here you punched the kid and threw him to the ground?"
Jack stayed silent.
Rourke shrugged, kept going.
"Also managed to damage two police cruisers on your way there."
From the side, Melanie Richards shot Rourke a disapproving glance but said nothing. She simply folded her hands in her lap and studied Jack carefully.
"Jack," she said gently. "We've read the reports. We know what you've been through… what happened to your family. And to Olivia."
At that name, Jack twitched. Barely — like a dying wire sparking.
Melanie continued, softer.
"We just want to hear it from you. That's all. If you're not guilty, we can prove that. We can help you."
Jack finally raised his head, eyes dull but sharp.
"Help? Find the culprit? I've heard that before. Look where it got me... Just leave me alone."
Rourke leaned forward, voice cool.
"You wanna play hardball, fine. But we've got ten bodies tied to the last 24 hours. You think we're just gonna—"
"Detective Rourke," Melanie cut in calmly.
Rourke clenched his jaw and leaned back in his chair.
Jack's voice came again. Low. Bitter.
"They were watching my house. Two of your own. You wanna count their bodies too?"
Silence.
He leaned forward slightly, that dead calm burning hotter now.
"I tried to warn you. Told you something was coming. No one listened. And now you're here, pretending to care?"
Cross didn't flinch. She just nodded once, taking the hit.
"Then tell us who did this," she said. "Give us a name."
Jack's jaw flexed. His eyes flicked to the one-way mirror. He knew they were listening.
"I have no name. No face. Just his voice. I'll never forget that voice. He mocked me. Enjoyed every second of it. That's all I have."
Rourke leaned forward again, but this time his tone was lower. Almost... honest.
"Look, kid. Today's probably the worst day of your life. You got promised protection — now here you are, cuffed to a table. I'm not gonna feed you some cliché about being on your side. But if you're innocent, I'll help. We'll find the bastards."
Jack exhaled, slow. Then, with nothing left to lose, he started from the morning. He told them everything.
When he finished, both detectives sat back — thoughtful, hand on chin.
Melanie broke the silence.
"Is that all, Detectives? He looks exhausted."
Cross nodded.
"Yes, ma'am. He's all yours."
They both stood. But before leaving, Nina Cross paused. Looked at Jack one last time.
Then walked out.
Melanie spoke in a calm, even voice.
"Jack, I'm not a detective. I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to make sure no one pushes you further than you can handle."
Jack looked up at her, eyes dull.
"I don't care… ma'am. Respectfully."
Melanie offered a soft, patient smile.
"I know you've lost everything. And I won't pretend anything I say can make that better. But I can promise you this — I'm here for you. Legally. Personally. If you feel unsafe, unheard, overwhelmed... I'll make sure it stops."
Jack leaned back in the chair, tired of being the traumatized kid in the room. He looked forward, empty.
"So is this all? When can I leave?"
"Not quite yet," she said gently. "We still have to figure out a safe place for you. And Jack — you're still a minor. We can't just hand you some papers and let you walk out on your own."
Jack exhaled, palms pressing into his face.
"I get it. Can I at least be alone in here?"
Melanie stood.
"Of course. If you need anything — ask for me."
Jack gave a small nod, and she left.
In the hallway, she passed Hank Mercer. They exchanged a simple nod as he stepped in, a key already in his hand.
He said nothing as he unlocked Jack's cuffs and dropped into the chair across from him. Jack rubbed his wrists, silent.
Hank finally spoke.
"Hey, son. How ya holdin' up?"
Jack looked at him — and felt that guilt crawl back. It wasn't Hank's fault. He didn't pull the trigger. He was just too late. Too slow.
"Sir… sorry 'bout earlier. I just—"
Hank cut him off with a hand.
"Don't. Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. That's on me. I promised I'd keep y'all safe. Failed on every count. Couldn't even find who took you."
He shook his head. "Hell, Jack. I don't even know what to say."
Jack stared at the floor.
"Just say there's somethin'. CCTV. Prints. DNA. Something."
Hank shifted uncomfortably, gaze skimming the floor.
"Our people are diggin'. Hard. But you— you don't need to carry that weight, son."
Jack noticed Hank wasn't meeting his eyes. That told him everything.
"Sir... for once, just be straight with me."
But before Hank could speak, his phone rang. He answered it quickly, muttered something short, then hung up.
This time, he looked Jack right in the eye.
"Listen up, son. What you got away from? That wasn't just some pack of lunatics takin' trophies. That was a full-blown operation — black-market, covert, and protected. Your escape? You wrecked somethin' big. Millions, maybe billions, down the drain. Quiet money. Ugly money."
He leaned in, his voice low.
"These folks? They ain't done. You're not just a survivor, Jack. You're a threat. And threats don't get to walk away."
Jack's chest tightened. But he held himself still. Eyes sharp now.
"So," Hank said, "I need ya to go back. The night of the abduction. Anythin'. Details. Small stuff."
Jack's mind recoiled at first — then spiraled inward.
Metal table. Freezer. Masked men. The kennels. The admin room.
There.
A flash. A desk. A calendar.
He focused hard, dragging the memory to the surface.
A date. July 29. Circled in red. Scribbled under it — blurry, unreadable. And a paper on the desk — something about… dock.
He tried to grab it. Hold it. But it slipped through.
He looked up.
"Sorry... I can't remember."
Hank leaned back with a tired groan.
"Can't blame ya. Just keep thinkin'. We'll circle back."
He stood and walked to the door.
"You'll be safe here for now. But I'll find someplace better — quieter. You hang in there."
Jack nodded.
Didn't say a word.
Because he'd seen the camera in the corner of the ceiling. The red light — gone. Powered off. Not recording.
He already knew not to trust anyone. Not all the way. Not yet.
And he sure as hell wasn't going to say the word dock in a room that suddenly stopped recording.
He was going to get out. And when he did?
He'd find out who did this.
And kill them.
One by one.
Two hours passed.
The door creaked open.
An officer stepped in — woman, mid-30s, blonde, cap pulled low enough to shade her eyes. She carried a food tray.
"Hi," she said, her tone relaxed. "You must be hungry."
Jack blinked. "Yeah… I didn't even notice until you said it. Thank you."
She smiled. "You're welcome… Jackie."
That word landed like a hammer.
Jack stiffened. Muscles coiled. Instinct took over.
He didn't even glance at the food. His eyes were locked on her posture. Her shoulders. Her hips. Her hands.
Victor Carter hadn't just raised a son. He'd trained a weapon.The ex-Marine brought more than medals home from Desert Storm — he brought scars and a philosophy: adapt or die. Traditional combatives hadn't saved his squad in tight hallways and bloody buildings, so when he got back, he cross-trained relentlessly: Filipino knife work, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, old-school boxing, street-born clinch fighting.
And when Jack turned six, he passed it all on.
Their garage became a hybrid dojo.Mondays: Muay Thai and boxing.Wednesdays: wrestling and jiu-jitsu.Fridays: weapons, multiple-opponent drills, improvised survival.
"The world don't fight fair, so why the hell should you?"
The first lesson never changed:"Don't watch the hands. Watch the hips. Watch the shoulders. That's where the fight starts."
Jack didn't just learn it — he absorbed it. By twelve, he was improvising. By fourteen, catching Victor off guard.Gyms couldn't handle him. Too violent. Too clinical. He dislocated a kid's elbow once—just a reflex, chaining a failed armbar into something brutal. Coaches called him "uncoachable."
Victor stopped trying.
"You've got fight IQ," he'd said. "You see patterns before they happen."
Jack didn't think so. He just figured people were sloppy. Predictable. And he hated bullies. Especially the ones who circled Olivia.
He never sought fights. But he ended them.
Now — in this concrete room — everything Victor taught him came screaming back at once.
The woman tilted her head, smirking. "Just like I thought. Sharp. Authentic."
Then she moved.
Fast.
Her hand dipped beneath her waistline — flash of metal, curved and wicked. Karambit. Jack's mind called it before his body moved.
He kicked the table — bolted down, but enough to shift. The tray clattered. The knife arced. Jack dropped from the chair, rolling as the blade sliced the air where his neck had been.
No time for fear.
Just patterns. Just survival. Just the language Victor taught him fluently.
He popped up immediately, fight stance loaded.
She vaulted the table with zero hesitation — feral, fluid.
She slashed again. High line. Jack ducked, rolled sideways, and came up fast. His world slowed — again.
That familiar blue-tinted tunnel vision washed over his mind.
Everything went quiet.
He scanned her stance — knees bent, rear foot ready to pivot. Shoulders loose. Knife forward. Her movements weren't clean Muay Thai or Krav or any single style — it was all mixed, optimized for kill zones. Speed and silence.
"What the hell is this style?" he thought — but shook the question off. Didn't matter.
She lunged again.
A whip-fast high kick cracked the air — he blocked it with his forearm, but the impact still burned. His arm went numb. He slid sideways, avoiding the worst of it.
"That would've split my jaw open if she landed it clean."
He screamed: "HELP!"
She didn't flinch. Instead, she grinned.
"This is an interrogation room, Jackie," she cooed. "Soundproof. No feed. No eyes. Just you, me… and the end."
Then she lunged, face cold as marble, eyes lit with violence.
A spike of pain bloomed in Jack's skull — another headache. Vision bent. The blue tint deepened, and her face morphed — warped, blurred, rimmed with a glowing red outline. Like she wasn't human anymore.
"Shit. I'm losing it. Again."
She slid in low, crab-like, one foot forward, shoulders hunched. Then snap — a brutal upward motion from her spine, arm rising like an uppercut, blade flashing straight toward Jack's jaw.
Jack jerked back, head-only dodge. The blade kissed air.
He snatched her arm with both hands. Locked. Twisted.
She snarled, but Jack didn't hesitate — he spun her around, slammed her shoulder-first into the wall. Hard.
She jammed a foot to brace, then used the momentum to twist free, spinning with a wild slash.
The blade grazed Jack's forearm — a surface cut, but it stung like hell. Blood warmed his sleeve.
Jack reset. Breathing hard. Arms up. Eyes locked.
She flicked the blood off her blade, smiling again.
"I was told you were just a traumatized kid," she said.
Jack gritted his teeth, fists clenched.
"Yeah? They should've told you I fucking fight back."
She smiled darkly.
"They did."
From her other hip, she drew a second karambit — now dual-wielding, the blades catching the harsh ceiling light like fangs. She didn't rush. Just started walking forward, slow and deliberate.
Predator.
Jack's eyes flicked to the door — too far. She'd bury both blades in him before he got close.
"This could go real bad… or just bad enough."
She closed in.
Jack made the first move.
A blistering left straight, launched like a missile — reckless and fast, just the way he wanted it. She barely tilted her neck in time, the punch whistling past her cheek.
Jack grinned. Hooked her.
He snapped his left hand back like a measuring tape — then grabbed the nape of her neck, yanking her forward.
She slashed — fast — but Jack, half a step ahead, twisted just enough to save his arm from being shredded.
Phase two.
His right shin whipped around, a brutal low kick aimed just above her knee. It connected hard — dead-center.
She didn't cry out. Didn't flinch. But her leg buckled, just enough.
Then came her retaliation.
A flurry of slashes — tight, vicious arcs designed to carve, not just cut. Jack couldn't block them all. He dodged what he could, retreating with every step.
Blade tips kissed his shirt. Air cut. Fabric tore.
His back hit the wall.
She lunged.
A wide horizontal slash.
Jack twisted — spun with the blade, letting it pass his nose by inches. He kept turning, her momentum carrying her too close to the wall behind him.
She dragged the blade across the concrete as she followed through — dry cement dust rained down.
Jack ducked low, surged forward, and grabbed her arm.
Mistake.
Her other blade raked across his upper back — white-hot pain ripped through him.
He shouted, muscles tensing — but didn't let go.
He drove a punch into her gut, full-body weight behind it. The hit landed solid — her breath hitched.
They staggered apart, both panting now.
Jack's shoulder throbbed. His back burned. She was limping, but that cold look in her eyes hadn't faded.
They stood across from each other again — blood on his sleeve, dust in the air, sweat dripping down both faces.
And the next round hadn't even started.
They circled now.
No words. Just breaths. Blood. Silence humming with tension.
Jack's vision pulsed. Blue tint again. Time stretched. His body knew what to do — had always known. The ache in his muscles faded under the rush. Every heartbeat sharpened his focus.
She attacked first.
Low feint — high strike.
Jack bit down and committed — dipped under the upward arc of her right blade and checked her shoulder with his forearm, throwing off her momentum. Her knife still scraped across his temple, drawing a thin red line.
He ignored it.
She stepped back, pivoted, tried a spinning slash — but her injured leg gave just enough to stall her.
Jack pounced.
Closed the gap, trapped her left wrist with both hands, and slammed her against the wall.
Her head bounced. But she was trained — twisted her wrist, slid the blade up, and nicked Jack across the collarbone.
He growled.
She tried to knee him — but he stepped inside it, jammed her stance. Then he lifted her off the ground and drove her back-first onto the metal table with a full-body slam.
It bent under them.
The tray clattered off. Food and utensils flew everywhere.
Jack straddled her, pinned one wrist under his knee, and used his free hand to punch — once — clean across her jaw.
She absorbed it, but blood spilled from her mouth.
She thought "Evading most of my attacks is a high feat on itself but countering me... am I going to lose to him?"
Then her free hand stabbed up — Jack caught her wrist just in time. Now they both froze. Struggling. Locked.
Her karambit inches from his ribs.
His breath hit her face. Her grin was bloody.
"You fight like someone who's done this before," she whispered.
Jack didn't blink.
"I have. Just not on this level."
They strained against each other — raw muscle, grit, and pain. Her blade inched closer, its curved edge trembling just above his chest. Jack's grip faltered for a split second—
Then his hips twisted. Fast. Violent.
He redirected her momentum and torqued her arm with brutal efficiency. Her body spun with it, her face yanked toward the table's edge—shoulder snapping out of socket with a sickening pop.
For the first time, she groaned. Pain. Real.
Jack didn't hesitate.
"Fuck it," he muttered. "Killed once. This is self-defense."
He grabbed her by the back of her hair, yanked her upright—
She gasped, voice trembling. "No—wait. Okay. Okay, stop. I'll go quiet. Like it never happened…"
Jack clenched his teeth.
He knew better.
And slammed her head into the edge of the table.
BAM.
Once.
BAM.
Twice.
BAM.
A dent formed on the edge.
Again.
Blood sprayed his shirt.
Again.
The wall turned red.
Again—
Until the sharp corner of the broken table edge found resistance—and pierced clean through.
From cheek to skull.
Then stillness.
Jack let go. Her body slumped forward, limp across the table, face gone—replaced by a mess of hair, bone, blood, and steel.
He staggered back, breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like a drum. The room spun slightly. His ears rang.
Red. Everything was red.
He slid down the wall, palms on his knees, head low, blood dripping from his knuckles.
"She died…" he muttered aloud, "…because she underestimated me."
His eyes flicked toward her corpse.
"A pro. Sent for me."
That truth sank in like ice through his chest.
"This is bigger than I thought."
Then—
Click.
The door opened.
Hank Mercer stepped in.
He didn't flinch at the body. He didn't speak.
His eyes went straight to Jack—slumped, exhausted, blood-soaked. Then to the scene.
Broken table.
Dead woman.
Karambits scattered across the floor.
Jack locked eyes with him.
Hank stepped inside the interview room and shut the door quietly behind him.
His voice came low and urgent: "Jesus, Jack… what the hell happened in here, son?"
Jack slowly stood up, chest heaving, face pale but calculated. He didn't answer right away — just played it how he needed to.
"They sent someone. An assassin," he stammered, deliberately shaky. "I—I didn't have a choice, sir. She tried to kill me. It was self-defense… I swear."
Hank looked at the body. Then back at Jack. "…Goddamn." He blew out a breath, hands on his hips. "You ain't even safe in a goddamn police station…"
Jack added, trying to sell the panic just a little more: "She slipped on the food tray. That's how I got the jump on her."
It was a terrible lie. Both of them knew it. But there wasn't time for truth. Only time for survival.
Hank scanned the ceiling. "Camera's been dead since noon. No one watchin' from the other side neither."
He rubbed his temple hard, then turned back to Jack.
"Alright… I'm gonna buy you a few hours. But first—" He opened the door a crack, peered into the hallway, then vanished.
Jack stood there in silence, blood drying on his arms, his shirt torn down the side, hands trembling not from fear — but from restraint.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again.
Hank slipped in, holding a plain black hoodie, a pair of jeans, and sneakers that clearly didn't match but would do the job.
"Here. Lost and found. You're a size what, ten? Good enough."
He tossed them to Jack and pulled a small first-aid kit from under his coat.
"You ain't leavin' lookin' like the cover of a horror flick. Let's patch what we can."
He handed over gauze and tape. Jack worked in silence, wrapping his forearm and wiping his face while Hank kept one ear on the hallway.
When Jack finished changing, Hank stepped close and pressed something into his hand — a folded pair of handcuffs and a laminated CPS visitor badge.
"Now here's how it goes: Melanie Richards is still in the building. I already told her what's goin' on — far as the system's concerned, she's takin' you outta here under protective custody."
Jack's voice was low. "She agreed?"
Hank met his eyes. "She's better than most of us. Said she wouldn't leave a kid to the wolves."
Jack nodded.
"Once you're out that back door, you keep movin'. Black Silverado's parked two blocks west behind the laundromat. Unmarked. Keys are in the glove box, along with a burner phone and enough cash to keep you mobile for a while. Don't use your name. Don't call anyone."
Jack paused, then quietly asked:
"Why're you doin' this?"
Hank took a second. The lines in his face deeper than before.
"Because I made you a promise. And I already broke enough of those."
He opened the door again — this time for real. The hallway was clear. At the far end, Melanie Richards waited near the exit, holding a clipboard like she'd done this a thousand times.
Hank leaned in one last time.
"Now go. Don't stop movin' until you're askin' the questions, not answerin' 'em."
Jack nodded, tugged the hood up, and walked down the hall without looking back.
She gives him a quick once-over — not shocked, just quietly acknowledging the blood and bruises he couldn't fully hide under the hoodie.
Melanie leaned in close, voice low and steady. "Don't speak. Just stay close, keep your head down, and follow my lead. You're under protective custody — that's all they need to know."
As they started walking, her tone softened just a bit. "If anyone asks, you were transferred out due to trauma and CPS concern. I'll handle the paperwork. You just breathe and walk."
Jack gave a slight nod and didn't look back. He walked to the car, unlocked it, and dropped into the seat. Guess this was Hank's backup plan for himself, he thought. Feel kinda bad taking it... but what choice do I have?
He started the engine and drove straight back to his house. The entire neighborhood was still wrapped in yellow tape—burned-out shells of homes, blackened debris, the smell of scorched lives. He swallowed hard and scanned for any patrol cars. Nothing.
He parked near the garage.
There she was. Thunder Jane.
His dad's prized Javelin. He just called her Jane.
Jack found a screwdriver and got to work—unscrewed both license plates, swapped them with the ones from the Silverado, tightened everything back down. Took the burner phone and the roll of cash from the glove box. He flipped the phone open, dialed a number from memory. It rang twice.
"Hello? Who is this?"
"It's Jack."
"Jack? Dude—where you been, man? It's been two days. This your new number? I'm savin' it."
"No. Don't save it. Just... look, you seen the news?"
"What news?"
Jack paused. Of course. Under the fuckin' rug. Me and my whole family — swept under like dirt. He exhaled, then spoke.
"Can you do me a favor?"
"Uhh... yeah? You sound weird, bro. What's goin' on?"
"Just come by the house. I'll explain."
"Bet. Be there in a few."
He hung up. That was Daniel — dumb as hell but loyal. Perfect.
Minutes later, Daniel showed up in an Uber. They met on the sidewalk, shook hands.
"What the hell happened here?" Daniel asked, eyeing the taped-off wreckage of the block.
"Oh, that?" Jack shrugged. "Somebody left the hairdryer on. Whole street went up."
"Shit... So what now? Where y'all gonna stay?"
"With my uncle for a while. That's why I called. You see that Silverado?"
"Yeah."
"It's my uncle's. I gotta take my dad's car to the new place but, you know—I can't drive two at once. Think you can take that one, drop it off behind the laundromat a couple blocks from the station?"
"Yeah, just park it and leave the keys?"
"Keys in the glove box. He'll come pick it up after work."
"Alright, cool. You good, though?"
"I'm good. Thanks."
They shook hands again. Daniel climbed into the truck and drove off.
Jack watched him go. That won't square the debt, but it's somethin'.
He walked back to Jane. Slid into the driver seat. Gripped the wheel. Took a deep breath.
Turned the key.
The engine rumbled to life — low and strong. She's still got it.
And just like that, the garage faded back two months…
He'd walked into the garage.
"Hey, Dad."
No response. Just the sound of a ratchet under the car.
Two more cranks, then Victor cursed and rolled out, sweat on his brow, face tight.
"Fuel pump's shot. Thought I fixed it last week."
He wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it on the bench.
"Starts up like a dream, then sputters five minutes later. Probably vapor lock or the diaphragm."
Jack smirked. "Maybe it's tellin' you to stop treatin' her like a soldier."
Victor gave him a look. "Soldiers don't whine this much."
He stood with a grunt, back still stiff after all those years. "I'll get it fixed. Just needs the right part. And a little more patience than I got today."
Jack blinked, back in the present. One good memory, he thought. A tear slipped down his cheek.
He wiped it away, stepped out of the garage.
He turned and looked at the house one last time.
He wasn't ready to go inside.
He got in the car.
And drove away.
1 month later.
Jack sat on the 8th floor of the abandoned building, perched in the broken window frame like a gargoyle. Binoculars in hand. eyes locked on the distant hum of cranes and container ships.
Port of Brownsville.
It had taken weeks to confirm. Weeks of fake names, burner phones, watching vans that didn't belong and truck drivers who never looked like truck drivers. Now he was sure.
The dock from his memory wasn't just real — it was alive.
He lowered the binoculars and walked to the center of the room — the walls littered with printed documents, hand-scribbled notes, strings connecting one scrap of data to the next. Chaos, but controlled.
A whiteboard leaned against a crumbling wall, scrawled in black marker:
"What I Know So Far"
Jack muttered under his breath, pacing in front of it.
"Port of Brownsville — controlled access. Cameras rerouted through private security firm: Harris & Mora Logistics. Which doesn't exist. Fake registry number. Fake board. Shell company under a shell company."
He tapped a photo tacked to the board — blurry, taken at night. A man loading kids into the back of a refrigerated truck. Faces pixelated. One looked too damn young.
Jack swallowed the burn in his throat.
"Shipment scheduled. July 29th. Midnight. No cargo declared. Manifest scrubbed. Route unlogged."
He grabbed a second paper — shipping logs he stole off a dockworker's tablet.
"Ship name: Marisol Dawn. No flags. No registration history. Like it doesn't exist."
He stared at the date circled in red ink: JULY 29Two days.
Two days until that ship either docked empty… or full of ghosts like him.
He stepped away from the board. Looked back out the window.
Trucks moved like ants across the yard. Unmarked. Military-style tires. Same logos on the doors — H&M Logistics — always clean. Always fast. Never stopped by security.
"Gotta get inside," he muttered. "One shot. No backups. No noise."
He glanced down at his duffel bag — neat, precise, compartmentalized like everything else he'd built this past month. Inside:
A Glock 19 — cleaned, loaded, holstered. A .22 with a homemade suppressor, good for close work — or so he thought. Turns out Hollywood lied. The damn thing still barked, just quieter. A wasted investment. Two combat knives — one on the belt, one in the boot. Three extra mags in a chest harness. Tactical gloves. Black utility pants. Matte-soled boots — no squeak, no echo. Flashlight. Bolt cutters, because not every locked gate needed a bullet. Lockpick set, in case he felt delicate. A folded change of dark clothes. Nothing tactical, nothing flashy. Just enough to disappear into the shadows when it counted.
Jack exhaled.
"Two days," he repeated. "Then I find out if I'm right… or if I'm already dead."
He wasn't here to play vigilante. He wasn't looking for survivors. This wasn't a rescue mission. He was betting that whoever ordered his family's execution would show up in person to oversee the shipment. The timing was too clean. Too deliberate. July 29 — the only date burned into his memory.
If they came, he'd be waiting. If they didn't… He'd burn the whole damn dock down anyway.
He sighed deep, then relaxed his shoulders — tension bleeding out in slow waves. The silence wasn't peace. It was maintenance. Just enough calm to keep him from unraveling.
He turned from the window and walked toward the far corner of the room — a space he'd cleared out and reforged into something that resembled a training area. Torn-up gym mats lined the floor. Cinder blocks and old tires for resistance work. A pull-up bar wedged into the concrete frame. Makeshift striking dummy made from a rolled-up mattress duct-taped around a pipe.
Jack stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. The fabric hit the floor with a heavy slap — damp with sweat, stained from nights he didn't remember and fights he didn't want to forget.
His torso was a roadmap of healing violence. The old wounds had settled into angry pink lines across his ribs, arms, and back — souvenirs from the woman in the precinct, from broken glass, from blades he didn't dodge in time. Newer bruises — deep purple and fading yellow — painted over the rest. Some from his fists. Others from the fists he invited. Every mark was earned.
He stood in silence for a moment.
Then dropped to his knees.
Closed his eyes.
Breathed in through his nose — slow. Held it. Breathed out through his mouth.
Again.
And again.
He wasn't chasing calm. He wasn't looking for peace. This was calibration.
Victor had taught him to meditate after fights — after pain. Not as a ritual, but as a tool.
"Control your breath, control your thoughts. Control your thoughts, control the fight."
Jack repeated the line in his head as he sunk deeper.
The wind outside barely reached the cracked windows, but inside his lungs, there was still motion. His mind settled into focus — not clarity, not purity — just focus. He pictured the docks. Every angle. Every guard rotation he'd seen. Every truck. Every shadow that didn't move the same way twice.
After ten minutes, he opened his eyes.
The storm inside was still there — but caged.
He stood, rolled his shoulders, and stepped barefoot onto the mats.
Time to train.
He stepped onto the mats.
Breath steady now. Movements smoother than they had been weeks ago. Sharp, fluid.
His fists clenched — not with rage, but with precision.
He started slow. Shadowboxing.
A jab. A low slip. A body hook. Pivot. Elbow feint into a rising knee. Flowing from one combination into the next like a machine made of instinct and muscle memory. Sweat gathered quickly — but he didn't stop.
Then he switched gears. Practiced the kill.
Knife work.
He grabbed the training blade from the taped wall. Weighted properly, dulled but balanced. Jack spun it once in his palm, then moved.
Footwork silent. Eyes locked. He struck the dummy's throat, sidestepped, stabbed center mass, retracted. He did it again.
Over and over.
Every movement designed for speed, silence, and certainty. In, out, disappear.
Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty.
Finally, he stopped.
Breathing hard. Shirtless. Scars glistening under the flickering bulb. He walked to the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. Looked at himself.
Sixteen years old.And he didn't recognize the reflection anymore.
He didn't feel like a kid.
Didn't feel like anything at all.
He dried the sweat with a towel, tossed it aside.
July 29 – 23:47 PM — Port of Brownsville
The night was dense with humidity. Texas heat didn't let go, even after sundown. Jack crouched behind a stack of rusted piping thirty meters from the fence — black gear hugging his frame, duffel bag snug against his back. No lights reached this far. Just the low thrum of generators and the distant clank of chains.
His breathing was steady.
He counted three guards in view — one by the gate, one roaming the shipping lanes in slow, lazy arcs, and one leaning against a container, smoking a cigarette.
Timing. That's all it came down to.
He sat in complete stillness without twitching once, heart rate even, eyes tracking patterns like a machine. When the patrolling guard turned his back and the smoker glanced at his phone, Jack moved.
Not fast. Not loud. Not reckless.
Just right.
He sprinted low across the dirt perimeter, boots whisper-quiet over gravel. At the edge of the fence, he knelt and pulled out the bolt cutters. The tension of the steel gave a faint squeal — too loud in the still air. He paused. Waited.
The patroller turned. Looked toward the dark.
Jack held still.
The guard's radio crackled. He turned away again.
Snap.
Jack sliced a clean entry, slipped through, and pulled the fence piece back into place like it had never moved.
He was in.
The dock was massive — cranes like metal giants, shipping containers stacked like crooked tombstones. The air reeked of sea rot and diesel fuel. Floodlights cast hard shadows. Jack stayed low, moving between the stacks, one hand always near the Glock.
Every thirty feet, he stopped and listened — not for sound, but for the feeling. That gut-hitch his instincts gave when something was wrong.
He'd learned to trust it.
At one point, he froze — crouched behind a pallet jack. A camera blinked lazily across the yard. On paper, it was old tech. Wide-angle. Poor night resolution. But Jack had studied it for weeks. Knew the blind spot in its arc — a three-second window.
He counted.
One. Two. Move.
He crossed to the next container and pressed flat against it, breathing through his nose, eyes darting.
He reached into his vest and pulled out the .22 — suppressed. Not because it was quiet, but because it wouldn't echo. If someone heard a pop, it might pass for metal settling. That's all he needed.
He rounded the corner.
Two guards. Chatting. Relaxed.
Jack crept forward. Slow. Measured.
Then stopped cold.
That gut-hitch again.
He dropped — just as a third guard turned the corner with a flashlight. It passed inches above him — lighting the gravel where his shadow would've been if he'd moved one second slower.
He exhaled slowly. Let them drift away.
He pressed forward.
Twenty minutes in, Jack reached the primary loading zone — rows of crates being shifted into a sealed warehouse near the port's main dock. That's where he saw them:
Three men.
Not guards. Not dock workers. Clean suits. Cigars. Laughing.
One of them had a voice.
That voice.
Jack didn't move. Didn't breathe.
His mind burned the face into memory.
He backed up. Slowly. One step at a time.
His Glock stayed in his hand, low and ready.
He slid the duffel bag under a nearby forklift. He had everything he needed on him now.
The three men went inside before Jack could get a clear look at their faces — but the voice of one of them was enough reason to move forward.
The warehouse loomed against the night sky like a rusted fortress, its corrugated steel walls peeling under the strain of salt wind and secrets. Jack crouched behind a stack of empty pallets, breath low, eyes narrowed. Every sound, every movement in the yard seemed louder tonight.
The combat knife strapped to his thigh felt reassuring. The suppressed .22 at his waistband was for quiet work — still audible but manageable. The Glock 19 holstered at his back was the last resort — once that came out, stealth would be over. Three spare magazines rode in his cargo pocket, heavy with purpose.
He scanned the yard again.
One guard. Smoking. Leaning against a crate like this place wasn't hell waiting to wake up.
Now.
Jack moved like a ripple in shadow. The cigarette flared. The guard flicked ash.
Then a hand clamped over his mouth — startled gasp, muscles tensing too late — and the blade slid between ribs, angled up into the kidney. Warmth spilled over Jack's hand. He held the body close. Felt it shudder, then sag.
He dragged it behind the crate, wiped his hand on the dead man's jacket.
First blood.
Not the first he'd ever drawn.
But the first tonight.
Another guard approached — steady patrol steps on gravel. Jack pressed flat to the corner. Waited.
Breathe. One... two...
He struck — fast. Too fast. The knife glanced off the man's side, shallow. Not fatal. Not yet. The guard spun, grabbed Jack's arm, eyes wide in surprise. A silent struggle. Jack grunted as the man wrestled for leverage.
But Jack was smaller. Faster. Fueled by weeks of obsession and quiet fury. He reversed his grip, twisted, and drove the blade into the space between clavicle and neck.
The man went stiff.
Then soft.
Jack caught the body. Lowered it. No time to shake.
Above him, the tower guard sat bored, legs kicked up. Jack considered the .22 — possible shot, but risky. If he missed, or the suppressor wasn't enough...
No. Too much noise potential. He'd climb.
Quiet. Measured. Boots placed where the frame met the braces. Less echo. Less groan. Every ounce of weight mattered.
At the top, the guard hummed to himself.
Jack crept up behind him, grabbed his chin, and drove the knife under the jaw. Upward. Sharp. A wet choke. Then stillness.
He eased the body down, face-first over the rail.
Still no alarm.
Only the low hum of cargo lifters, distant radios, and the sea.
He moved.
Past the first fence now, into the yard proper. The complex unfolded before him — metal skeletons, shipping containers stacked three high, forklifts parked like sleeping beasts.
He slipped between shadows, saw a dockworker at the backdoor hauling boxes. No uniform. Just muscle and a clipboard.
Jack crept close, wrapped his arm around the man's neck, and crushed his windpipe with a single twist — a fast, silent chokehold. The man thrashed. Then dropped.
Jack dragged the body into the shadows and kept moving.
By the fuel depot, another figure stood outlined in sodium light, smoking. Jack crept close. Close enough to smell diesel and burnt nicotine. Then pushed — hard.
The man didn't scream. Just dropped — a crunch, a sprawl.
Another gone.
Two more stood near a delivery truck, chatting low. One laughed. The other checked his phone.
Jack stalked the blind side.
One quick slice — carotid, clean. The man collapsed like wet laundry.
The other turned. Jack was already moving — hand clamped over the man's mouth, knife finding its target between ribs. A muffled gurgle. Then nothing.
He lowered the body beside the truck.
Clean. Quiet. Effective.
He ducked into the warehouse — metal groaning underfoot. A catwalk arced overhead. Jack climbed the side rail silently, boots placed with surgical care.
A guard patrolled alone.
Jack crouched. Moved in.
The blade slid across the back of the leg — Achilles. The man buckled with a strangled cry. Jack silenced him with a hand over his mouth and a blade across the throat. Blood dripped through the grating like red rain.
Then — a shout from below.
Spotted.
A guard had rounded the corner, seen the blood dripping. He raised his radio.
Jack drew the .22 in one fluid motion.
PFT. The guard dropped. Radio clattering but silent.
Too close. Jack moved faster now.
Two more guards came investigating from the east bay.
Jack took aim.
PFT. PFT.
One dropped. The other clutched his shoulder, drawing his sidearm. Jack fired again.
PFT. The man collapsed.
The suppressor was working — but wouldn't last much longer. Jack knew the muffled shots would eventually draw attention.
He descended quickly, retrieving his knife.
A door banged open across the warehouse floor. Three armed men rushed in — automatic weapons raised.
Stealth phase over.
Jack holstered the .22 and drew the Glock in one smooth motion. Dove behind a steel crate as bullets peppered his position.
The warehouse erupted with gunfire — deafening in the enclosed space.
Jack counted shots. Waited for the pause. Then rose, firing with precision.
Two rounds. One guard down.
He ducked as return fire shredded the crates around him. Moved laterally.
Three more rounds. Another guard collapsed.
The third man scrambled for cover. Jack circled, keeping low. Found an angle.
Two more shots. Done.
First magazine empty. He ejected it. Slammed in a fresh one.
More boots thundered from above. The alarm was blaring now.
Two guards on the upper walkway — one with a rifle.
Jack took careful aim. Fired twice.
The rifleman pitched over the railing. Crashed to the floor.
The second guard retreated.
Jack reloaded again. Second magazine in.
He moved toward the executive hallway, stepping over bodies.
His left arm burned — a grazing bullet he hadn't even felt in the adrenaline rush.
Two more guards at the last door. Jack fired — precise double-taps.
Both fell.
Nine rounds left in the current magazine. One full magazine in reserve.
Should be enough.
Through the cracked office panel above — light.
Three men.
Surrounded by crates. White boxes. Labels: H&M Logistics. All sterile. All lies.
One paced — nervous, hands twitching.
The Organ Runner.
One sat calmly, typing into a laptop beside a stack of bills.
The Fixer.
And one stood perfectly still. Arms behind his back. Watching the door. Waiting.
The Butcher.
That face — mid 40s, no life behind those eyes, hair long reaching to his shoulder, messy.
Jack's eyes burned.
That was the man who put a bullet in Olivia's skull.
Who turned his loved ones into lifeless puppets.
Jack's grip tightened around the Glock.
And he moved.
But before he could get a clean angle — the Butcher turned, said something too quiet to hear. The Fixer stood and calmly unplugged the laptop. The Organ Runner slipped out a side door fast, like his nerves finally boiled over.
Jack watched them split — instincts flaring.
Divide.
The Butcher stayed behind, motionless, as if guarding the heart of it all.
The Fixer vanished through a back stairwell, toward the upper surveillance rooms.
The Organ Runner ducked into a side annex lined with medical pallets and refrigeration units.
Jack's pulse slowed.
This wasn't just execution anymore. It was a hunt.
He made his decision fast.
He moved after the Fixer — up a rusted steel stairwell that wrapped around the warehouse's rear wall like a spine. His boots landed silent on each tread, weight centered, shoulder brushing crates for cover.
At the top — glass corridor. Surveillance lights flickered through hazy panels. He passed dusty wires, cracked monitors, abandoned control stations. The hum of old tech buzzed in the floor.
He approached the door at the end. Slightly ajar. Just enough.
Then—
Movement.
A muzzle flash lit the room — barked twice.
Jack threw himself sideways, shoulder slamming the door open. Bullets cracked past his ribs, buried into drywall.
He dove behind a rusted file cabinet.
Return fire — three rounds. The Fixer ducked. Tactical, sharp. He knew what he was doing.
Jack peeked — spotted the man crouched behind a flipped metal desk. Compact SMG in hand. No panic in his face. Just precision. Control.
The Fixer fired again — burst of three.
Jack flinched back. Steel pinged with sparks.
Five rounds left.
He skirted the corner, repositioned, breathing through his nose. His shoulder burned from the earlier graze. Didn't matter now.
Glass shattered behind him — overpenetration. Too reckless.
He waited for the pause.
Moved.
Pop—pop—pop. Three more shots. One clipped the Fixer's arm — a grunt, quick reposition.
Two left.
Jack slid into cover behind an overturned shelf.
The Fixer called out, voice calm and taunting.
"You're fast. I'll give you that. But you're not that great kid."
Jack didn't answer.
He waited.
Silence stretched.
Then — a shuffle. Magazine reload.
Jack lunged from cover, raised the Glock.
Two rounds — one slammed into the Fixer's chest, center mass.
The man dropped.
Jack didn't wait for the twitch. Closed in fast, kicked the SMG across the room.
The Fixer gasped once — eyes already glassing over.
Jack stared down at him. Said nothing.
Then reached for his own final magazine.
Clicked it into place.
Shot the Fixer in the forehead, just in case.
One down.
Two left.
He turned, blood still cooling on his face, and moved toward the stairs again.
The Butcher was waiting.
And Jack was done being hunted.
Jack left the surveillance office and made his way toward the metal walkway, then to a side corridor lit by red backup lights. On his way, he noticed dried blood — yet it still shined red. He followed it. Heard humming noises, the kind you'd hear from an AC or something similar. Soon enough, he stood in front of plastic curtains. He separated them and stepped inside.
It was freezing.
Ahead was another curtain — longer, almost reaching the ceiling. Green.
Jack grasped his Glock and entered the freezing cold hell.
Inside was a familiar scene. A horror museum — bodies dangling from meat hooks like pigs. He clenched his teeth, bit down on his bottom lip. It bled slowly.
"Too much. It's too much. You people are not human," he thought.
It wasn't just the bodies — a freezing fog filled the air. Visibility was close to zero. Jack walked slowly among the dangling corpses.
Then — a single footstep to his left.
Jack turned, fast — almost too fast. A cleaver flashed out of the fog, silver and silent.
He dodged — but not clean.
The blade skimmed across his right shoulder — a shallow but burning cut that soaked his sleeve almost instantly. Then came the full weight of a shoulder slam. The Organ Runner crashed into him, sending him sprawling into a rack of swinging bodies.
His Glock slipped from his grip. Disappeared into the fog.
Jack rolled, gritted his teeth through the pain. Drew the combat knife in one smooth motion.
He didn't bother with the .22 — no time, no clarity, no way of knowing if the mag was even full.
Across the mist, the Runner grinned — then vanished again.
Jack's shoulder ached. Warm blood trickled down his arm, mixing with the cold sweat clinging to his back. The freezer fog pressed in from every side.
He slowed his breathing. Focused.
"Eyes won't save me here."
Metal creaked. Chains swung. The hum of the cooling system buzzed like a heartbeat.
Then — something else. A whisper of cloth, to his rear-left.
Jack dropped, twisted, and deflected the downward cleaver strike just in time. The Runner's follow-up knee slammed into Jack's ribs. Sharp pain flared — something might've cracked.
Jack gasped, but reacted — countering with a wild slash across the Runner's side. Not deep. Enough to stagger.
They both stepped back into the fog. Breathing hard.
Jack wiped blood from his lip, reset his stance.
"He's not stupid. He's not crazy. He's a predator."
Jack adapted.
He imagined a version of the Runner in his mind — a ghost hunting through the mist. Calm. Strategic. Looking for Jack's blind spot.
So Jack gave him one.
He turned his back — walked slowly, backward, into the ghost's path.
"If you love the back so much, then come for it."
His boot stepped into an imagined circle — his kill zone.
The Runner came.
Silent, perfect, predictable.
Blade swung for Jack's neck.
Jack ducked, pivoted — grabbed the Runner's wrist mid-swing. Twisted. Hard.
The cleaver clanged to the floor.
Jack didn't stop. Drove his elbow into the Runner's throat, then plunged his knife into the armpit — deep into muscle.
The Runner screamed — a high, broken sound.
He kicked Jack away, staggered, and scrambled for the cleaver.
Jack lunged — but not fast enough.
The cleaver came up — caught Jack along the thigh.
A deep slash. Not life-ending, but enough to drop him to one knee.
Jack growled through the pain, launched upward with his free hand, and smashed his knee into the Runner's chin.
Nose shattered.
The Runner spun from the force — dazed.
Jack tackled him into a hanging corpse. Chains groaned.
The Runner tried to vanish again, crawling backward into the mist.
Jack wouldn't let him.
He grabbed the Runner's wrist, shoved it against a hanging hook — and drove the hook through his forearm.
The scream was guttural.
Jack didn't let go.
He slammed the Runner's face into a metal pole. Once. Twice. A third time.
The body sagged.
Jack stepped back, breathing hard.
Then lunged — final stroke.
Knife to the throat — deep, sharp, and absolute.
The Runner gurgled. Twitched. Then went still.
Steam and blood mingled in the frozen air.
Jack stood there, chest heaving, one hand pressed to the gash on his thigh.
Runner's body, limp, dangling from the meat hook.
"Second one down," he muttered.
Then turned back toward the red-lit corridor.
He still had one left.
Jack limped down the central corridor, each step firing jolts of pain through his slashed thigh. His right shoulder throbbed from the cleaver's kiss. Ribs ached with every breath.
But he kept moving.
The warehouse opened ahead — the main shipping floor. A wide concrete expanse scattered with crates, forklifts, and shadows. A red EXIT sign glowed in the distance, casting long crimson reflections across the floor.
This was the place.
Where it had started.
Where it would end.
The Glock was gone — lost in the mist and meat of the freezer. All Jack had left was the .22 and the combat knife. He checked the .22's mag. Two rounds. Only two.
He stepped into the open floor, eyes scanning.
Nothing moved.
Then — a shadow peeled away from behind a stack of pallets.
The Butcher stepped into view. Shirtless. Built like a slab of granite. Scars crisscrossed his body — some surgical, some battlefield. Old bullet holes. Jailhouse ink. Arms loose at his sides. No weapon in sight.
Jack raised the .22.
The Butcher's eyes locked on the pistol. "That won't help you, Jackie."
Jack fired.
The Butcher slipped the shot — too fast for a man that size.
And in a blink, he was on him.
A massive hand clamped Jack's wrist — crushed it. Bones screamed. The .22 hit the ground, skittered away.
Before Jack could blink, the Butcher drove his knee into Jack's already-wounded thigh.
Pain flared red. Jack dropped with a scream.
He reached for his knife — but the Butcher's boot pinned his hand to the floor.
Snap.
Fingers bent where they shouldn't.
The Butcher leaned down, picked up the fallen .22, and tossed it behind him like trash.
"That was your last chance."
He stepped back, raising his fists.
"Now it's just you and me."
Jack pulled himself to his feet, barely. His leg was weak. His hand pulsed with broken nerve. Every breath stung his ribs.
The Butcher said; "Let's see what your daddy taught you."
The taunt hit cold.
Jack said nothing. His eyes narrowed.
He watched the way the Butcher moved — slow, coiled. Not rushing. Not wasting motion.
Execution isn't enough, Jack thought. This one's personal.
They circled — predator and prey, roles shifting with every step.
"You're barely standing," the Butcher said. "You should've brought your daddy with you. Oh, wait — right. Forgot. He's dead."
Jack didn't flinch.
He was counting. Breathing. Mapping the room in his head.
And then the vision came back.
That blue tint — sharp, surreal — washing across his peripheral. The same one that always showed up before it got real. Before it got close.
Jack blinked once. Let it in.
He saw the ghost of the Butcher's path — the swing before it came, the grab before it landed.
He didn't dodge the haymaker. He slipped it. Tight. Minimal.
Countered with two fast shots to the ribs.
Solid hits — but the man didn't even grunt.
Jack tried to pull away. Too late.
Thick fingers found his shoulder — dug into the cleaver wound.
White-hot pain.
Jack stumbled. The Butcher came again. Jack retreated.
"That's one," the Butcher mocked. "I counted three in the warehouse. Leg. Shoulder. Ribs. How many more, Jackie-boy?"
Jack steadied his feet. Victor's voice echoed in the back of his skull:
When they're bigger, make them chase you. When they're faster, make them wait. When they're both... make them bleed.
The Butcher lunged — fast, for a big man. Tried to grapple.
Jack sidestepped, snapped an elbow into the kidney.
A grunt. Not much.
The Butcher spun — faster than expected — and backhanded Jack hard across the jaw.
Jack hit the floor, spat blood.
Then came the knee — straight into his ribs.
Something cracked.
Jack curled, gasped. Vision dimmed.
The Butcher circled.
"Your girl died quicker than this," he said. "One shot. Clean. Could've made money off her, you know. But you — you cost me. Millions. You think I'm letting that go?"
Rage surged.
Jack roared and charged — reckless.
The Butcher sidestepped again, caught him in a headlock. Arms like concrete wrapped around Jack's throat.
The world narrowed.
Black dots danced.
Jack's elbow struck — once. Twice. A third time. Weak. Too weak.
Nothing.
So he went limp.
The Butcher adjusted his grip — confused.
Jack's foot scraped the floor. Found traction.
Then drove backward — full force.
CRASH.
They hit a crate. It splintered. The Butcher's grip loosened.
Jack slipped free — fell to the floor, gasping.
The Butcher turned — enraged — and sent a roundhouse toward Jack's head.
Jack ducked.
Came up under it. Feinted left — elbowed right.
His rear elbow cracked the Butcher's jaw.
Finally — a reaction.
The Butcher stumbled.
Jack moved. Snap-kick — straight to the knee.
POP.
The leg bent wrong.
The Butcher bellowed — dropped to one knee.
Jack circled behind him. Grabbed his shoulder. Yanked him backward by the collar.
Then drove his face straight into the concrete.
CRACK.
The Butcher grunted, dazed — tried to push himself up.
Jack grabbed his head again — both hands this time — and slammed it down.
CRACK.
Blood sprayed.
"You fucked my life!"
Another slam.
"Took everything,for what?"
And another.
"Because I survived? Because you lost money?"
His knuckles were raw from gripping. Arms trembling. His thigh screamed. Ribs on fire.
But Jack didn't stop.
''Fucking, dieeeeeeee!''
He hoisted the Butcher's head one last time — saw the busted nose, shattered jaw, one eye rolled back — then slammed it again.
CRACK.
The skull split against the cold floor. Bone and blood smeared the concrete.
The Butcher stopped moving.
Jack let go.
The body slumped sideways, twitchless. Done.
He staggered back, blood painting his hands, his face, his boots. Staring down at what was left of the man who took everything from him.
Stillness.
Then — the .22. Lying a few feet away, cold and silent.
Jack limped over. Picked it up.
One round left.
He didn't hesitate.
Pressed it to what remained of the Butcher's temple.
Pop.
Just to be sure.
He dropped the weapon. Stared at the red exit sign glowing in the haze.
Then limped toward it.
No tears. No words. No peace.
Somehow, Jack made it back to Jane — his dad's beloved Javelin.
He dropped into the driver's seat, body screaming with pain. Then a memory hit him like a wave:
The day Jack was released from the hospital.
Victor pulled up in front of the house and parked.
Lydia and Olivia jumped out before the engine even stopped, rushing to open Jack's door. He was limping, still bandaged — scars fresh, body stitched together like patchwork.
"It's fine, really," Jack muttered. "I'm much better. I can walk with the cane."
Olivia shot him a look — sharp and worried.
"No. You can't. You'll lay down, you'll rest. So you can heal."
She said it like a command. Jack didn't argue. He knew better.
Then he looked toward the porch — and saw Liam. Standing beside his dad. And a little girl.
She looked… familiar.
Then it hit him.
One of the girls. From the clinic. The one with the black eye.
Jack's face lit up.
Liam walked forward, blinking back tears. He didn't say anything — just hugged Jack, tight. It hurt. Jack's ribs screamed. He didn't mind.
"Thank you, Jack," Liam whispered. "I don't know how to repay you."
Jack smiled through the pain.
"Seeing her alive is enough."
Lydia stepped forward.
"Surprise," she said gently. "She's one of the girls you carried."
Jack nodded, as Liam let go.
"Yeah, Mom," he said softly. "I remember her. It's a damn good surprise."
Back to the present.
Jack sat in the Javelin's front seat. Alone.
And broke.
The tears came before he could stop them.
He sobbed — like a child, like a ghost, like a boy who had murdered to survive and buried everyone he loved. It all came back. The screams. The cleaver. The blood on his hands. The steel tables. The fire. The silence after a final gunshot. He had killed men. Nearly died more than once. And in the end — there was no one left to come home to.
He grabbed his head, the pain unbearable. Slammed it against the steering wheel once.
Twice.
A third time.
Then… stillness.
He wiped his face.
Started the engine.
And drove into the rising sun.
End of Prologue: Final.