He had taken Gene under his wing, not out of altruism, but because he recognized a useful tool, one that could be molded and sharpened to his exact specifications. Besides, the thought of shaping her devotion, of watching her reflect his warped ideals on him, was... stimulating.
He had given her her first blade, a slender stiletto with a pearl handle. He'd chosen it specifically because it looked delicate, almost ornamental, a stark contrast to the brutal purpose it would serve.
Its weight was cold and solid in her eager hand, a tangible symbol of the power he was granting her.
He remembered the way her eyes widened, the almost worshipful gaze she fixed on him as he presented it.
He had stood over her, guiding her trembling grip, as she cut open her first 'contract,' a necessary surgery, he'd told her, to excise cancer from the world. The man had been a low-level informant, barely worth the effort, but the act itself was the point.
He had savored the faint scent of blood, the metallic tang mingling with Gene's nervous perspiration. He had watched her face closely, searching for the flicker of hesitation, the hint of remorse.
There was none, only wide-eyed focus and a desperate desire to please him. Perfect. He'd praised her afterward, a single word, "Good," spoken with a low, husky voice that made her flush. That flush was his reward.
He had taught her how to vanish, how to melt into the city's shadows, how to become a ghost when the light was on her. He reveled in her quick learning and her almost uncanny ability to adapt.
He made sure to impart each lesson with a touch, a lingering grip on her arm, a brush of his fingers against her cheek, always just enough to make her question the intent, to keep her off balance, to keep her looking at him for guidance.
He had let her believe he was the only leader, the architect of their burgeoning revolution, because, back then, in the desperate, bloody early days, it was almost true. It felt true. And she had thrived on that belief, on his validation, on the shared purpose.
He knew she hung on his every word and valued his approval above all else. It was intoxicating, this power he held over her. He saw the adoration in her eyes, a fragile, flickering flame he could extinguish with a single harsh word, or fan into an inferno with a carefully placed compliment. The control was exquisite.
But as her skills grew, so did a certain independence, a spark of self-reliance that both intrigued and infuriated him. He couldn't allow her to become too strong, too self-sufficient. He needed her dependent, reliant, craving his approval.
The thought of her turning that sharp gaze, that ruthless dedication, away from him was…unacceptable. He needed to remind her who held the leash, who had forged her into the weapon she had become.
The game was far from over, and Jack always played to win, even if the victory was only her continued devotion, etched on her face every time she looked at him.
He would break her down and build her back again and again because Gene was his, and a tool will listen to its creator no matter how much he is sadistic. And oh, he reveled in it.
Jack radiated an unsettling charisma, a manufactured warmth designed to draw you into his orbit. He considered himself a sculptor of souls, carefully chipping away at vulnerabilities until he had molded you into the perfect reflection of his desires.
He thrived on the power dynamic, the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) manipulations that allowed him to control the narrative.
Compliments were laced with barbs, affection was a tool, and vulnerability was a weakness to be exploited. He enjoyed watching people dance to his tune, the flicker of desperation in their eyes a testament to his influence.
His world was a stage, and everyone in it was an actor playing a role he had meticulously written.
He believed himself to be the master puppeteer, pulling the strings of their emotions with practiced ease.
There was a cold, detached amusement in his gaze as he observed their struggles, a perverse satisfaction in knowing he held the key to their happiness or their misery.
He relished the feeling of control, the almost godlike power he wielded over their lives. He saw their dependence as a validation of his superiority.
He had, in his twisted way, "cared" for her. He'd seen the potential, a raw spark he could twist and refine. He'd subjected her to a carefully calibrated regimen of pressure and praise, criticism and affection, all designed to break her down and build her back up in his image.
He'd taken a certain pride in the strength she developed, the resilience she displayed under his tutelage. He genuinely believed he was making her better.
And now, that same girl, forged in the fires he had stoked, turned on him? Ripped a hole in the very fabric he had woven? The audacity of it was staggering.
The betrayal cut deeper than he could have imagined, not because he loved her, but because it shattered his illusion of control.
It was an unacceptable flaw in his masterpiece, a glaring imperfection that threatened to unravel everything he believed about himself and his ability to manipulate the world around him.
The rage that simmered beneath his polished exterior threatened to erupt, promising retribution as calculated and cruel as the manipulations he had so carefully employed.
He wouldn't just break her; he would dismantle her, piece by piece, until she was nothing more than a cautionary tale whispered in the shadows of his influence.