Jake's palms pressed lightly against the floor.
"197… 198… 199… 200."
He didn't slow.
Didn't strain.
Didn't even change his breathing.
When he finished, he didn't collapse.
He simply stood up in one smooth motion, like gravity itself had politely stepped aside.
Not a single tremor in his arms.
"…Huh."
Sweat still coated his body—but his muscles weren't screaming anymore. They felt… warm. Awake. Like they could go another thousand without complaint.
Jake rolled his shoulders once, twice.
Click.
A translucent blue screen slid into view.
Strength +1
Speed +1
Health +2
"As expected," Jake muttered calmly.
He grabbed the towel around his neck and wiped his face.
"The stronger I get, the worse normal training scales. These gains are almost negligible now."
He stared at his reflection in the mirror.
"Sooner or later… combat will be the only real option."
A brief silence.
"…It's been four days since the Destroyer."
The image flashed—towering frame, impossible mass, that overwhelming pressure.
Jake exhaled.
"I've barely talked to anyone since then."
He reached for a shirt—
—and froze.
From downstairs—
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!
"STOP—BRO—STOP—I CAN'T—!"
A crash.
Something hitting the floor.
More laughter.
Jake blinked.
"…What."
He slipped on his shirt and stepped out of his room, following the sound.
Downstairs.
The moment he reached the last step—
Jake stopped dead.
On the living room floor—
Dean.
And Baldy.
Laughing like their lives depended on it.
Not polite laughter.
Not chuckles.
The kind of laughter where your lungs give up and your body just accepts death.
Dean was clutching his stomach, face red, slapping the floor repeatedly like it owed him money. Baldy was on his side, tears streaming down his face, gasping uselessly between wheezing laughs.
"HAHA—HAHAHAHA—!"
"I'M—BRO—I'M GONNA—DIE—!"
Jake stared.
"…Why is he here."
Dean finally sucked in a sharp breath and sat up, still shaking.
"Oh—oh man—okay—okay—"
He wiped tears from his eyes and looked up at Jake.
"Jake… listen."
"No," Jake said flatly. "I already don't like this."
Dean grinned.
The kind of grin that should be illegal.
He reached beside him and lifted an old, dusty photo album.
Jake's eye twitched.
"…Why do you have that."
Dean flipped a page with dramatic care.
"And this," he announced proudly, holding it up,
"is Jake Anders' legendary debut."
Baldy leaned in.
The photo showed a tiny baby Jake—chubby cheeks, furious expression—wrapped in a diaper, glaring at the camera like it had personally insulted his bloodline.
Written underneath in awful handwriting:
"Day 1: Already judging everyone."
Baldy froze.
Then—
"PUHAHAHAHAHAHA—!"
He collapsed backward, clutching his ribs.
"WHY DOES HE LOOK SO DONE WITH LIFE—?!"
Jake's face went red instantly.
"PUT. THAT. DOWN."
Dean wasn't finished.
"Oh—oh—wait—there's more."
He flipped the page.
Another photo.
Baby Jake sitting upright, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in pure hostility.
Caption:
"Age 1: Refused to smile. Threatening aura confirmed."
Baldy screamed.
"I CAN FEEL HIS KILLING INTENT THROUGH THE PHOTO—!"
That was it.
Jake vanished.
Speed.
Kick.
Dean didn't even register the movement.
CRACK!
He was launched clean across the room.
"GYAA—!"
He hit the wall, slid down—
—and his soul popped out of his body, floating upward peacefully, arms crossed.
"…Worth it," Soul-Dean whispered.
Jake stood where he was, breathing steady, ears burning.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you old bastard?!"
Baldy slowly stopped laughing.
He looked at Jake.
Then at the floating soul.
Then quietly closed the album.
"…I regret nothing."
Jake turned.
Baldy screamed.
Dean's fingers twitched.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like a thief reaching for forbidden treasure.
The photo album inched closer to his hand, millimeter by millimeter.
Jake felt it.
Didn't turn.
Didn't react.
Dean's grin widened—
Jake's head snapped around.
Dean instantly went limp.
Eyes rolled back.
Tongue slightly out.
One arm flopped dramatically onto the floor.
"…He's playing dead," Jake muttered.
Silence.
Baldy whispered, "Commit to it."
Dean didn't move.
Jake sighed, deeply.
"You two are impossible."
He turned away and walked toward the balcony.
Outside, the city was bathed in amber light.
The sun hung low, bleeding gold across glass towers and distant streets. Shadows stretched long and soft, like the world itself was finally slowing down.
Jake rested his arms on the railing.
"…Beautiful," he murmured.
Footsteps approached quietly.
Dean's girlfriend stepped out onto the balcony, oversized T-shirt hanging loosely off her shoulders, sleeves long enough to swallow her hands. She leaned beside him, gaze fixed on the sunset.
"Hi," she said gently.
Jake glanced over.
"…Hi."
A comfortable silence settled.
Then—
"I think," she said slowly, "you should give him a chance."
Jake's fingers tightened slightly on the railing.
She didn't push.
"I don't know what happened with your mom," she continued softly. "Or your family. I won't pretend I do."
She smiled faintly.
"But… it wouldn't hurt to let him try."
Jake exhaled.
"He left," he said quietly.
"No explanation. No goodbye."
His eyes stayed on the horizon.
"He called sometimes. Said things like nothing had changed."
A pause.
"But it had."
She listened. Truly listened.
"I can't forgive him," Jake added. "Not like that."
She nodded.
"That's okay."
Jake blinked and looked at her.
She smiled warmly.
"You don't have to forgive him today. Or tomorrow. Or even soon."
She folded her arms against the railing.
"But you have time. And sometimes… that's enough."
Jake was silent.
Then—
"…Thanks."
She turned, surprised.
"Huh?"
Her smile softened.
"And… thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For being here."
Jake looked at her.
"I've never seen him this happy," she added quietly.
"Not the loud kind. The real kind."
She glanced back toward the living room.
"He laughs more when you're around. He complains less. He actually tries."
She chuckled.
"He's still an idiot, though."
Jake snorted despite himself.
She stepped back.
"Anyway," she said gently, "just… don't disappear, okay?"
She walked back inside.
Jake stayed there a moment longer.
Then he turned.
And saw—
Dean.
Alive.
Baldy.
Very alive.
Both of them crouched together, whispering furiously.
Dean: "I'm telling you—he bit people as a baby."
Baldy: "No way."
Dean: "WAY. That glare? Born with it."
They barely held in their laughter.
Jake's forehead twitched.
A vein popped.
"What the hell is wrong with the two of you?!" Jake snapped.
"Stop acting like children—you're both grown asses!"
Dean blinked.
Then casually said—
"What are you, my dad?"
The world stopped.
Jake froze.
Darkness poured out of him.
The lights dimmed.
The air dropped several degrees.
His eyes ignited—crimson, sharp, absolute.
Shadow bled across the floor.
Two shadow-forged kitchen knives formed in his hands.
Slowly.
Silently.
"You're dead," Jake said calmly.
Dean screamed.
"WAIT WAIT WAIT—!"
Baldy dove for cover.
Dean scrambled backward, hands flailing.
"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ATTEMPTED MURDER WITH YOU—?!"
Jake stepped forward.
The shadows followed.
The sunset faded behind him.
And somewhere—
Dean deeply regretted every life choice he had ever made.