Jack slowly opened his eyes. The room was dim enough that the light didn't sting. Above him, white tiled ceiling. Sunlight glared against it, but not on him—something was blocking it.
He turned his head to the right.
A tall figure in a cowboy hat sat beside him. As his vision focused, he saw the familiar rough outline of his father.
Jack rasped, "Dad?"
Victor Carter looked over, his lined face softening. "Good mornin', son. How you feelin'?"
Jack swallowed, voice dry. "Numb."
Victor chuckled once. "Good. Means the drugs are workin'. Let's hope they don't wear off too soon—or you'll be howlin' from what I hear."
Jack tried to shift, winced, then glanced down at his legs. Both there. Both bandaged, but there.
"That's... something," he thought.
A familiar voice came from his left. "Jack, baby... Oh, you scared me so much."
His mother. She leaned in and hugged him. He gasped.
"Ah—!"
She pulled back immediately. "Sorry. Sorry. I was just so scared."
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. I should've stayed put."
Victor cut in with a low, sure voice: "No. I'm proud. We're proud. You saved your brother. Saved those kids. And you came back to us alive. But... I keep wonderin'—how?"
The door opened with a soft creak.
A woman in a white coat stepped in, clipboard in hand. Late 40s, tired eyes behind glasses. A name tag read Dr. Evelyn Hart.
She approached Jack's bed, checked the monitors, scribbled something down, then straightened up.
Her tone was clinical, but her voice was kind.
"How are you feeling?"
Jack blinked. "Uh... numb. A little disoriented."
She nodded. "That's the meds. And totally normal—you just woke up from a week-long coma."
Jack's eyes widened. "A week...? Damn. Could've been worse. I still have all my limbs, right?"
She gave a small smile. "You do. And you should be grateful for that. There are some injuries we're monitoring, but overall—you're lucky. With rest and therapy, I believe you'll make a full recovery."
Jack exhaled hard in relief.
Dr. Hart continued.
"Let me walk you through the condition you were in when we got you... and what we had to do to keep you breathing."
Jack nodded slowly. "Yes, ma'am. Please."
She began:
"First: your left shoulder was dislocated. We realigned it and checked for ligament damage—luckily, no tear. That makes a difference in recovery. You actually tied a rag around it like a sling. That helped."
"Next, your legs. Deep lacerations, especially under your feet. We cleaned and stitched them, and gave you a tetanus booster, just in case."
"You had a facial laceration on your cheek. Looks like a bullet graze—we closed it up with internal and surface stitches."
"The back of your head had a lot of blood, likely from blunt trauma. We ran a CT scan—no brain bleed, but we monitored you for 48 hours."
"Your right knee showed signs of sprain. We ran an MRI—thankfully no full tear. It's braced now, but you'll need physical therapy for a few weeks."
"Your toe was fractured. We did an X-ray, taped it. Should heal fine."
"You also had multiple minor cuts, bruises, and muscle strains. All cleaned, stitched where needed. You've been on IV fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers."
"Finally... your left rib is fractured. That's why breathing feels tight. It'll heal naturally, but it'll take time—around 4 to 6 weeks."
She closed her folder, voice calm.
"That's everything, Jack. You've been through hell. But you're not broken. Not permanently."
Jack stared up at the ceiling, his voice quieter. "...Thanks, Doc."
Dr. Hart nodded. "Rest now. Your body's already doing the hard work."
As she finished her sentence, Hank Mercer and one other officer walked into the room.
"Sorry," Hank said, tilting his hat politely, "are we intrudin'?"
Dr. Evelyn Hart gave a short nod toward them.
"No, officer. We just finished. You can ask questions, but don't push him too hard."
Hank nodded with gratitude, then turned his face to Jack, offering a warm smile.
"Here ya are, champ. How ya feelin', huh?"
Jack gave a faint, half-amused groan. "You're the third person to ask that today, sir."
Hank chuckled, a raspy sound from deep in his chest. "Alright, I won't push ya. Shall we skip to the important questions then, son?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright then."
Hank pulled up a chair from the side and sat down, adjusting his belt and hat before turning toward the younger officer, who pulled out a notepad and pencil like clockwork. Then Hank looked back at Jack, steady and serious now.
"Alright, son. What happened in there?"
Jack thought for a moment. He figured it'd be better to cut out some parts — the part where he killed four people in cold blood and injured another with a gun. Not only would it raise more questions, but it could also land him in deeper waters than he was ready to wade through.
He took a deep breath and said, "I got knocked up. Someone hit my head and kidnapped me, so my memory is a bit blurry... sorry, sir. I'll do my best to remember it."
Hank gave him a long look — not quite buying it, but not ready to call him a liar either.
"Where'd they snatch ya, son? And what were you doin' out there?"
Jack cleared his throat.
"I was at home. Called my girlfriend Olivia to come stay with my mom and little sister. She came, so I got out. Looked around the spot where Luke had gone missin'. Noticed a blood mark on the ground. It wasn't a lot, so I thought — maybe an injured dog or cat grabbed the other kids' attention. Mom told me she went inside, and Dad had gone to the garage for tools, so I looked for a gap... somewhere Luke might've wandered off. Walked down past the houses, jumped a couple fences, and got into a wooded trail behind it."
The younger officer scribbled down notes fast, but Hank cut in.
"So ya figured all that out by yerself? Just from a couple drops of blood?"
Jack shook his head. "No, sir. I took a wild guess outta desperation."
Hank shrugged, locked his fingers together and rested them on his belly.
"Alright. Continue."
Jack nodded.
"As I walked through the trail, time passed. It got dark, so I turned on the flashlight on my phone. After a while, I heard footsteps. Slow. Calm. Coming closer. I thought it could be Luke at first, but a six-year-old kid, lost in the woods? He'd cry. Run. These steps... they were too measured. So I killed the light and hid behind a tree. But I guess they saw my flashlight from a distance... whoever it was came up behind me and hit me hard. Next thing I remember..."
Jack trailed off.
Hank raised a hand to pause him.
"Hold on a bit, son."
He glanced at the younger officer taking notes. A few seconds passed. The officer gave a small nod, signaling he was caught up.
"Ya see his face?" Hank asked. "Anythin' stand out? A scar? A tattoo? Maybe how he walked? Those lil' details can help us a helluva lot."
Jack frowned, straining his memory, then shook his head.
"No, sir. If I did, I don't remember. It was too dark. I didn't even notice he was comin' from behind, so... sorry. Can't help you there."
Hank made a hand gesture to continue.
"Then I woke up... on a metal table. Strapped down. It was so tight I had to... dislocate my own shoulder to slip out of it."
That line landed like a hammer in the room.
Hank's brows jumped. Dr. Hart blinked and froze. Jack's mom looked horrified — her eyes welled up. His dad's jaw tightened, eyes wide with silent shock.
Hank leaned forward slowly.
"You did that?"
Jack hesitated. He hadn't meant to sound so raw, so... brutal. He realized just how intense that sounded for a 16-year-old kid.
"Well... I tried other things first, but nothin' worked. The straps didn't budge, so I thought... if I could move my shoulder freely, maybe I could twist and create a gap — enough to get my right arm out. So I grabbed my left wrist with my right hand... pushed 'til it popped."
The room went dead quiet.
Even the pen in the officer's hand stopped scribbling.
Jack looked around.
"Fuck," he thought. "I should've just said I fell on it... too late for that now."
Jack continued, hoping to disrupt the shockwave he'd just created in the room.
"After I got myself free..."
He paused. From this point forward, he knew he had to choose his words very carefully. Lying outright wouldn't work. But if he mixed in enough truth — sprinkled honesty over a scaffold of lies — it could sell. And if they pushed too hard?
He could always play the "I don't remember" card.
"I noticed there was a tray next to me. I think I picked up a scalpel — because I was afraid. I walked toward the door, then a man came in. He attacked me straight on. Mind you — I was fully naked too. So I tried to protect myself. I waved the scalpel around, scared outta my mind... tried to kick him, too."
He glanced at his father, then the floor, swallowing hard.
"But he overpowered me. Punched me in the stomach — the air left my lungs. I fell. As he was kicking me on the ground, I grabbed the scalpel again and... cut his Achilles."
Jack paused, blinking.
"Then I ran. After that... it's blurry."
His mother's voice cracked, tears slipping down her cheeks as she reached forward to hold his hand and caress his face.
"Oh, my poor baby..."
Hank leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees. He seemed to buy the story.
"And the kids? Where'd ya find them? They've been talkin' about flyin' and swimmin'?"
Jack saw his opportunity. This was the final puzzle piece — if he tied the escape to the kids, he could drift back into the truth.
He nodded slowly.
"I remember locking a door. Someone was pounding on the other side, trying to kick it open. I remember being scared out of my mind. I remember finding a pair of pants... on a couch. I remember a cage. I remember carrying two kids in my arms, running through the dark forest."
He closed his eyes as the images returned.
"I remember lights — flashing in my eyes. I remember the full moon above me. I remember gunshots... and my legs — slashed open, burning like hell. I remember coughing up blood on the rocky shore... and red and blue lights rolling in."
He looked at Hank.
"That's it, sir. Sorry. It's all in parts now."
Dr. Hart gave Hank a long look — the kind that said "you're pushin' it." The kids had been through hell. Jack especially.
Hank read the room.
He stood up, brushing off his jeans, adjusting his belt.
"Alright, then. Even in pieces, it sounds like hell. If you remember anythin' — even the smallest scrap — your mama and daddy have my number. Tell us, alright?"
"Yes, sir." Jack hesitated. "One question..."
Hank paused near the door, turning back.
"You askin' me all this... means you haven't found them yet, huh?"
Hank fixed his hat, gave a somber nod.
"Not yet. But we'll find 'em. Don't you worry. And we'll keep an undercover unit parked near your house — make sure nobody tries to follow you or your brother home."
Jack exhaled. Relief, but not peace.
"Thank you, sir."
Hank nodded toward the young officer, then tipped his hat to Lydia and Victor before heading out. Dr. Hart gave Jack a faint, tired smile before following them into the hallway and quietly closing the door.
Hank stepped outta the hospital room, noddin' to Dr. Hart as she headed the other way down the hall.
The younger officer followed close behind, clearly hesitant. After a moment, he spoke up:
"Uh… sir? There's some things that just don't sit right with me."
Hank let out a long, tired breath through his nose, like he'd been expectin' this.
"Yeah, I know. Don't think I ain't been chewin' on that myself. But listen here—kid's been through hell. That ain't up for debate. Took a blow to the head, body's torn to shreds, and somehow he makes it outta there alive — haulin' three kids with him? Shit, that's a miracle if I've ever seen one."
The rookie still looked uneasy.
"It's just, uh… the pistol, sir. Patrol says they pulled it right off his waistband when they found him. Kinda hard to ignore."
Hank gave him a look — not angry, just worn.
"Yeah, I know. I was told. And yeah — maybe he don't remember. Maybe he does and don't wanna say. Wouldn't blame him either way. He killed someone in there? I'd call that self-defense, wouldn't you?"
The younger cop nodded, slowly.
"Makes sense, sir. Still… he looks like just a normal kid. Except for the part where he pops his own shoulder out without blinkin'... that part's wild."
Hank stopped mid-stride, boots heavy against the waxed floor. He turned his whole body to face the young officer.
But his eyes weren't on the kid anymore — they were somewhere far off. Dust. Gunfire. Screams in the wind. A wall crumbling beside him. Smoke in his lungs. He remembered the way his fingers had clenched around the rifle like it was a lifeline. How the only thing louder than the firefight had been the sound of his own heart pounding in his skull.
He blinked. Shook it off. Locked eyes with the rookie.
"You ever been kidnapped, son?"
"N-no, sir."
"Then hush that talk. You don't know what desperation feels like. You ain't never had your life — or somebody else's — hangin' by a damn thread. That kinda fear'll push a man past limits he didn't even know he had."
He took a step forward.
"Adrenaline, son. That's what got him outta there. Not skill. Not training. Just raw, blind will to survive."
The rookie swallowed hard. Didn't say a word.
Hank leaned in, voice lowering like a warning:
"And if you go pickin' apart every little hole in a story like this, you're gonna drive yourself crazy. Trauma don't come out clean, son — it comes out jagged. Bleedin' on everything it touches."
He turned back down the hall, boots echoing on the tile.
"If the boy remembers more, we'll hear it. But between you and me? I pray he don't. Not if it's as bad as I think it was."
The younger cop gave one short nod.
"Yessir."
And just like that, the hallway fell quiet.
2 Weeks Later – Carter House
Jack jolted awake, chest rising fast like he'd just been pulled from underwater. His T-shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat. Another nightmare. He didn't remember the details—just the sensation of drowning in panic.
He sat up slowly, rubbed the back of his neck, and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. One long gulp. He exhaled, chest still tight. This was routine now. It had been what—ten nights? Twelve? He'd lost count. Always waking up like this. Sweating. Shaking. No clear memory, just the afterburn.
He kicked the blanket off, too hot to care. Swung his legs out of bed and stared at them. Faint pink lines crisscrossed his shins and thighs — stitches turned scars, some angry and raised, others fading already. His right knee was still tender, but not enough to make him limp anymore. A long, mean scar curled just above his left ankle, where something sharp had split the skin clean open. His ribs still ached — especially when he breathed too deep or twisted wrong — and a dull throb still echoed behind his left side. He caught his reflection faintly in the dark window, the thin scar cutting across his cheek like a knife drawn in haste. But he was healing. Faster than the doctors expected. He always had been.
He got up quietly and padded down the hallway, barefoot, careful not to wake anyone. Reached Luke's door and eased it open. Moonlight cut through the blinds just enough to see. His little brother lay curled up in bed, arms tucked tight to his chest.
Jack stepped in, sat down gently on the edge of the mattress, and ran a hand through Luke's hair.
"I hope you kept your promise and didn't peek," he whispered. "For your own good... I hope your little brain just erases all of it."
He sat with that thought for a moment longer before slipping out of the room like a ghost.
Downstairs, Olivia was asleep on the couch again. Jack had offered her his bed every night—insisted, even—but she was stubborn as hell. Always had been. She'd argue circles around him and still come out on top. So, he'd stopped fighting it. Just scooped her up when she passed out and carried her to his bed.
Which he did now. He cradled her carefully, carried her up the stairs, and tucked her in like he'd done it a hundred times.
"You sleep like you pay the bills," he muttered with a small grin. "Heavy as hell."
He opened the window for some air. A cool breeze rolled in, brushing against his face, lifting his sweat-damp hair.
He leaned on the sill, stared out into the quiet street, and muttered:
"It's over. Has to be."
But then came the thoughts. Creeping back in like weeds.
"I don't know who they are. Could be a whole organization. They ran an organ ring in a rundown vet clinic, so black market for sure. Maybe even traffickers. I escaped with three kids. That's a spotlight on them. They'll leave the city. They have to. They'd be stupid to stay, stupid to come after me. And they ain't stupid. Just greedy."
Still… there were always the "what ifs." The kind that stalked you quietly in the dark.
What if they're still watching? What if they want revenge? What if I just made myself—and everyone I love—a target?
His mind chewed on the worst-case scenarios until—
"Jack?"
A sleepy voice from behind.
He turned.
Olivia squinted at him from the bed, hair messy, eyes barely open.
"Couldn't sleep? And why'm I in your bed again?"
"Yeah. And 'cause you passed out on the couch again."
"Mm. Fine. Close the window, it's cold. Come to bed."
"Can't. Mom's next door. I'll crash downstairs."
She didn't argue. Too tired to push it. Just turned over and drifted off again.
Jack smiled faintly, kissed her forehead, and left the room.
Downstairs, he headed for the couch—then stopped.
Something caught his eye through the living room window.
A silhouette.
Across the street. Hood up. Standing still. Smoking.
Watching.
Jack froze, a chill sweeping over him that had nothing to do with the breeze. His whole body tensed—heart thumping, muscles coiled.
He stepped toward the window, eyes narrowing.
Then—a creak from the stairs.
He spun around.
His mom. Sleep-tousled, squinting.
"Jack? Couldn't sleep, baby?"
He swallowed the tension fast, smoothed it out of his voice.
"Just checkin' on Liv. She passed out on the couch again, so I took her upstairs."
She smiled, slow and warm, rubbing her eyes.
"Poor girl… Lord knows she loves you. And you keep gettin' into trouble and scarin' the hell outta her."
Jack let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked back to the window.
"Yeah, I know. She's the best."
His mom nodded, voice soft.
"Keeper, that one. You listen when your momma says so."
"I know, Mom. Love you."
"Love you too, baby. Now get some sleep. No more prowlin' around like a coyote."
She shuffled off upstairs.
Jack turned back to the window.
The silhouette was gone.
And now he wasn't sure if it had ever really been there.
But it didn't matter.
Because the fear was.
Still there.
Waiting.
Next morning, after breakfast, Jack walked across the street with two coffee mugs in hand, heading for the black sedan that had become a familiar fixture outside. For two weeks now, undercover officers had been stationed there, watching over him and his family. It brought him peace — so as a gesture of gratitude, he refilled their coffee and snacks daily.
As he approached the driver's side, Officer Stone rolled down her window.
"Thank you, Jack… again. You know you don't have to. It's our job."
Jack smiled as he handed over the mugs.
"I know, ma'am. But I'm glad you and Officer Williams are out here, keeping watch. Least I can do."
He turned back toward the house. Just as he reached the porch, the front door opened — Olivia stepped out, smiling.
"Goin' home, Liv?"
"Yeah," she said, adjusting her bag. "Need to grab some fresh clothes. And my mom's been freaking out, so I should probably let her see I'm still breathing."
"You want me to come by later?"
"You better," she smirked. "I kinda missed having the house to myself."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
"That's the only thing you missed?"
She laughed and flicked his forehead.
"That's the only thing you ever think about, Carter."
She hopped into the waiting Uber while Jack rubbed his forehead, grinning.
He headed for the garage, the sound of clinking metal greeting him before he even opened the door. Inside, his dad was hunched over the 1970 AMC Javelin — a deep blue beast of a machine, faded in spots but beautiful in shape. Not as famous as a Mustang or Charger, but a true gem to those who knew their classics.
Jack had heard the story from his mom a dozen times: Victor Carter's dream car since high school. Never had the money to buy one — enlisted straight into the military after graduation and served as a combat engineer during Operation Desert Storm.
A week before the war's end, a vehicle explosion left him with a spinal compression injury — not paralyzing, but enough to earn a partial disability and chronic pain. Honorably discharged in '93, Victor lived with a sore back and a quiet fire in his belly.
He didn't like sitting still, though. So, when the VA checks came in, he put his hands to work: freelancing as a handyman and mechanic, taking odd jobs through referrals and neighbors. Said it kept his mind sharp and the kids' college fund healthy.
Jack leaned into the garage doorway.
"Mornin', Dad."
Victor didn't look up from the engine. His voice came from deep inside the hood.
"Mornin', son. Sleep alright?"
"Nightmare."
"Again? Maybe we oughta get you to that shrink your mama keeps talkin' about."
"I'm fine. Don't even remember it. Just wake up sweating, heart goin' a hundred miles an hour."
Victor — serious with the world but always warm with family — chuckled under his breath.
"Well… long as you ain't wet the bed."
Jack groaned, but the corner of his mouth curled. His dad's dry-as-dust dad jokes had a way of sneaking past defenses.
He changed the subject.
"Still workin' on Jane?"
Victor peeked over his shoulder and corrected him with mock offense.
"Thunder Jane, thank you very much."
"Right, sorry. I'll leave you and your life partner alone."
Victor chuckled.
"Don't tell your ma I'm in here — I think she's gettin' jealous."
Jack laughed as he backed out of the garage.
"Secret's safe with me."
He walked off still laughing. Victor Carter — tough as nails in public, soft around family, and somehow always funniest when he wasn't trying.
As Jack walked back toward the house, the image from the night before flickered in his mind — the man across the street, standing in the dark, just watching.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself, "definitely a hallucination."
There were two cops out there at all times — watching, circling, breathing this place in shifts. If someone had been lurking, they'd have noticed. They'd have warned him. Warned someone.
It was just the PTSD creeping in again — and Jack, surprisingly, was ready for that war. He knew what was coming. Knew what happened to someone who held a bloody, half-broken scalpel in their hand… who almost lost their little brother… who ran through hell and saw what hung from those meat hooks.
He wasn't broken — but he sure as hell was cracked. And he'd accepted that, right there on that blood-slick floor, in that abandoned clinic. No illusions.
He was always that kind of kid. Mature too soon.
Back inside, he kissed Sophie on the head as she lay on the couch, eyes locked on her tablet, cartoons bouncing off the screen.
Her reaction was the same as always: ugh. She wiped the kiss off like it was poison.
Jack smirked.
He made his way to Luke's room. Door half-open. The kid had his back turned, playing quietly on the floor.
"Hey buddy," Jack said, stepping inside. "Whatcha doin'?"
"I'm playin'. Look!"
Jack took another step, then stopped cold.
Luke turned around — grinning wide.
In one hand: a scalpel, slick and red.
In the other: something soft, wet, and misshapen — pulsing faintly. A kidney.
At his feet: bloody rags. His shirt pulled halfway up, belly split open, glistening with red. Too real. Too detailed.
"Look, Jack!" Luke chirped. "I'm playin' surgery! I'm a doctor!"
Jack's brain cracked in two.
His knees buckled. He stumbled back — hard — hitting the dresser behind him, breath knocked from his lungs.
The walls lurched sideways. Everything turned red.
His ears rang.
Luke stepped toward him. Blood dripped from his hands. The scalpel swung lazily by his side.
"You said they wanted it, right?" "So I gave it to them."
He tripped. Fell. Then crawled — inching closer, dragging the organ behind him, red smears painting the carpet.
"I'm not scared anymore, Jack."
Jack scrambled back, boots slipping. He tried to stand — failed — crashed against the wall, legs tangled, heart in his throat.
The pressure in his skull was unbearable now. A blade of pure agony driving deep behind his eyes.
His vision tore apart — faces, walls, Luke's voice — all layered over echoes from the clinic. A screaming saw. A slamming door. A body twitching on a hook.
Then he screamed.
A deep, guttural scream — not just fear, but terror. The kind that cracked bone.
Footsteps.
Pounding down the hall.
Lydia Carter burst through the doorway.
"Jack?!"
He didn't hear her.
"Jack—baby—look at me!"
She dropped to her knees. Grabbed his face. Shook him.
His eyes were wide open but seeing nothing. Just blood. Just Luke. Just death.
She slapped him once.
No change.
She slapped him again — harder.
Then a third — sharp, desperate.
Jack sucked in air like he'd surfaced from drowning.
His eyes blinked. Blinked again.
Reality returned in broken pieces.
Luke stood a few feet away — perfectly fine. Holding a toy car in his small hands.
No scalpel.
No kidney.
Just Luke — confused. Innocent.
"Jack? Why're you crying?"
Jack didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His hands were still shaking.
Victor barreled in from the garage, hands greasy with oil, one pressed against his lower back. His face twisted in pain.
"What in the hell's goin' on?! You alright, son?!"
Lydia turned her head.
"Found him on the floor, screamin' his lungs out!"
Jack, still breathing like he'd run a marathon, pulled himself upright against the wall.
"...Saw somethin'. Somethin' that wasn't there."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "Like what? Boy, I'm takin' you to that shrink whether you like it or not."
Jack waved him off, already grabbing the keys from the table.
"No. No, Dad. I'm fine. Really. Just... didn't sleep much last night. Ribs're actin' up, that's all. I just need some air."
He was already moving.
"I'm goin' for a drive."
Victor didn't argue. Just called after him, "Don't go too far."
Jack stepped outside and took a long, shaking breath. The fresh air cooled the sweat clinging to his back.
From the corner of the yard, the black sedan's door popped open. Officer Stone stepped out. Officer Williams followed.
They'd heard him.
Williams approached first, cautious.
"Everything alright, Jack? We heard screamin'."
Jack scratched the back of his neck, forcing the most believable crooked smile he could manage.
"Yeah. Just cracked my ribs on the corner of my desk. Hurt like hell."
Stone winced.
"Damn, I bet it did. You sure you're okay now?"
"Yeah, yes ma'am. Just gonna clear my head. Maybe drop in on Liv while I'm at it."
Williams nodded.
"Alright then. Just be careful out there. You got our numbers — anything feels off, you call, understand?"
"Yessir. Will do."
Jack slid into the Civic, shut the door, and started the engine.
He didn't look back.
He just drove.
5 Hours Later
Jack blinked himself awake. Soft light from Olivia's lamp spilled across the room. She'd fallen asleep too — head tilted, hair a mess, breathing slow and peaceful.
He sat up gently, careful not to wake her.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He checked the screen.
MOM
He answered immediately.
"Yes, Mom?"
Silence.
Then — a male voice, calm and smooth:
"Hi Jackie. How you holdin' up, huh?"
Every muscle in Jack's body locked.
His breath caught. His spine froze. Cold sweat climbed his neck.
He swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady.
"Who are you?"
The man laughed — soft, amused.
"No, Jack. That's not the question." "The question is… who are you?"
Jack's chest burned. His mind raced, flipping through possibilities. This had to be another hallucination. Had to be. Please be fake. Please be in my head.
"Where's my mom?" Jack asked, heart pounding now.
"Oh, she's right here. Her own house. Where else would she be?" "I also met your siblings. Cute little rascals. I've seen Lukey before, but Sophie... man, she's a diamond. Pure." "Your old man wasn't too warm — but I think he's warming up."
Jack's body screamed — every nerve flaring red.
His vision blurred. His stomach turned.
Across the room, Olivia stirred, blinking awake. She looked at Jack's face — pale, twitching, drenched in cold fear — and instantly knew something was very wrong.
Jack's voice cracked. A plea.
"Don't. Please. Take me instead. I'll come to you. I'll do whatever. Just… don't touch them. I'm begging you."
Click.
Silence.
The call ended.
Jack's fingers flew, calling the number back.
Disconnected.
He tried again.
Powered off.
His hand trembled.
And Olivia finally spoke:
"Jack… who was that?"
Jack yelled, "FUCK!" and bolted from the room, then out of the house. He didn't stop. Didn't breathe. Just kept shouting: "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
He dove into his Civic, hand trembling as he fumbled with his phone — calling Officer Stone. No answer.
"The hell?!"
The engine roared to life. He slammed it into gear, tore the handbrake down, and floored it — tires shrieking as he peeled out. In his rearview, he caught a glimpse of Olivia, barefoot, chasing after him. "Sorry," he thought grimly. "No time."
He dialed again — this time, Hank Mercer.
"Jack?" Hank answered on the second ring, concern already baked into his voice. "What is it, son?"
Jack swerved around a slow-moving SUV, blood roaring in his ears. He practically screamed into the phone: "My mom—Hank—help! Someone's at my house!"
In Hank's office, a chair clattered to the floor. He was already strapping on his sidearm. "Who? Where are you?"
Before Jack could answer, a semi-truck rolled into the intersection ahead, leaving barely any room to maneuver. Left: blocked. Front: suicide. Right: tight — but maybe enough.
Time slowed.
The world turned blue.
Jack's mind mapped every path in less than a second — his only shot: cut hard right, brake, pray.
He yanked the wheel and pulled the handbrake — the Civic screamed sideways, clipped the back of the truck, and flipped. One full roll. Then stillness.
Upside down.
No seatbelt.
Jack had been tossed around like a pinball. Blood streamed down from a gash on his forehead.
Dazed, he groaned, reached for his phone — somehow still cradled in the cracked mount — and kicked at the shattered windshield. Once. Twice. Third time — it popped loose.
He crawled out, glass crunching beneath him, body battered.
Around him, horns blared. People shouted.
But all he saw was the road ahead.
A red BMW convertible sat a few feet away, stopped mid-turn. Brand new. Sunroof open. Inside — a skinny, preppy kid with his phone in one hand and terror written across his face.
"Perfect," Jack muttered.
He sprinted over, breathing hard.
The driver rolled down the window halfway, already panicked. "W-what the fuck?!"
Jack didn't wait.
One punch — clean to the jaw. The kid's head snapped sideways.
Jack yanked open the door, dragged him out by the collar, and tossed him onto the pavement.
"Sorry. I'll bring it back." He slammed the door and floored the gas.
The BMW peeled out, tires screeching. Wind in his face. Blood on his cheek.
But Jack didn't care.
All he saw was home.
And the threat waiting there.
After some time, Jack reached the entrance to his neighborhood.
He saw smoke first—thick, black, pouring into the sky like the whole block had been shelled. Several houses were on fire. He slowed the car but didn't stop, creeping forward, scanning everything.
As he got closer to his home, something on the sidewalk made him slam the brakes.
He flung the door open and jumped out—terrified he was hallucinating again.
He wasn't.
Mr. Hanley, his neighbor for years, lay sprawled face-down on the pavement across the street.
Jack swallowed hard and stepped closer. Blood soaked the man's back. His shirt was torn in several places—distinct holes.
Gunshots. He was shot in the back. Running.
Jack followed the line of Hanley's collapse. His gaze rose toward his house.
His heart dropped.
The black sedan. The undercover unit. Driver's door hung open, blood dripping from it like a broken faucet.
"Fuck."
He ran to the car.
Inside: both officers. Dead.
Officer Williams slumped in the passenger seat. One shot, clean through the forehead. Eyes wide. Still open. Shock frozen on his face.
Officer Stone had tried to fight. Her door was ajar, body half-hanging out, blood pooling beneath her. One hand still clutching her sidearm — or trying to. A bullet to the head had ended it before she could even squeeze the trigger.
Jack took it in — eyes darting across the cracked windshield, the bullet holes, the splatter. He saw it unfold in his head:
"They got ambushed. Quick and clean. Never had a chance. Williams didn't even flinch. Stone… she tried. Reached for her pistol. Got the door open. Too late."
He took a deep breath and crouched, gently pulling the pistol from her limp hand. He checked the magazine.
Full. One in the chamber.
"She never fired. They were too fast."
Jack looked toward the house. His house. The door stood half-open, like it was waiting for him.
He ignored the fires. Ignored the screams. Ignored the rising heat and the thickening smell of death.
"They had my wallet. My ID. My phone. I thought they'd just disappear — lay low. But I was naive. Of course they'd come to finish it. I ruined their operation. Shined a goddamn spotlight on them. Of course they want me dead."
His fingers curled tighter around the pistol grip.
He moved toward the door.
Each step was heavier than the last, but his feet didn't stop. His jaw was locked. Breath shallow.
When he reached the porch, he put a hand on the wood. It was warm. Everything was — from the smoke, or the fire, or the blood he didn't realize he was still stepping through.
He raised the pistol.
Pushed the door open.
And stepped inside.
The first thing Jack saw when he stepped inside the house... was bodies.
Not his family — strangers.
Four men in black. All dead. Blood pooled under them, smeared on walls, soaked into the rug.
Two had been shot in the head — clean execution-style.
The other two were something else entirely.
One's jaw was dislocated, his cheek ripped wide open, nearly hanging from his face. The other had a leg bent backwards, the bone sticking clean through the denim, neck twisted like a corkscrew.
"What the fuck...?"
Gruesome. Violent. No hesitation in the kills.
"Who the hell did this?"
He moved cautiously through the house. Toward the living room.
More bodies.
Five... maybe six. Piled. Scattered. Mangled.
Limbs torn. Bones shattered. Faces unrecognizable.
"Fuck... fuuuck. What the hell happened here? Who are these people?"
He wanted to scream — "MOM! DAD! LUKE! SOPHIE!" — but he didn't. Someone could still be here.
He sprinted silently to Sophie's room. Empty. Then Luke's. Also empty.
Then—
A phone rang.
Upstairs.
Jack flinched.
The sound pierced through the house like a scalpel. He followed it.
Blood everywhere. Splattered. Dragged. Thick in places like paint.
He reached the second floor. The trail led to his parents' bedroom.
The door was closed.
But blood leaked from underneath.
He stopped breathing. Whispers in his brain turned into a single, desperate chant:
"Please God... please God... please..."
He shut his eyes.
"I'll go to church. I'll pray. I'll donate. I'll stop drinking and smoking. Just—please—protect them. Please."
He reached for the door.
His hand shook.
He turned the knob.
And opened it.
Jack dropped to his knees.
The room was a massacre.
His entire family.
Each one seated in a wooden chair, facing forward. Still. Broken.
His mother. Her white blouse drenched in red. Throat slit. Head slumped forward.
His father. Skull crushed. Face cut and bruised beyond recognition. One knee blown out entirely — flesh and bone sprayed across the floor.
But it was the last two that destroyed him.
Luke. Sophie.
His baby brother and sister.
Mouths slightly open. Eyes half-lidded. Still in pajamas. Lifeless.
Jack broke.
His vision trembled. The room bled red. A piercing migraine ripped through his skull. His hands clawed at his face as if he could dig the image out.
He crawled through the blood, sobbing, screaming, dragging himself to them.
He gathered Luke and Sophie in his arms.
Held them.
Rocked them.
Screamed so loud the air itself seemed to recoil.
Then—
The phone rang again.
Everything stopped.
No more shaking. No more screaming. No more red.
The room turned silent. Cold.
Jack slowly laid their bodies down.
Stood.
Walked to the phone.
Picked it up.
And answered.
Voice low. Dead.
"You will suffer the most painful death. I'll rip your muscles off your bones. I'll make you eat your own limbs. I'll tear—"
The voice on the other end cut him off:
"Hey there, Jackie. Aren't you gettin' a bit ahead of yourself, huh?"
Jack's heart turned to stone.
"FUCK YOU! I will find you. I'll burn everyone you love to ash. I'll bury you alive and make you dig your own grave with your goddamn teeth!"
The man laughed. A long, easy laugh.
"I knew you had it in you. But damn, Jackie... that rage? That's somethin' else."
A beat passed.
Then—
"Anyway, enough death threats. How 'bout you check in on your girl?"
Jack froze.
No.
Please, God, no.
"Don't you touch her. What the hell do you want from me?!"
"Hey now, relax. I ain't touched her yet. Wanna say hi?"
The line flipped to FaceTime.
Jack accepted instantly.
And saw her.
Olivia.
Beaten. Bruised. Strapped to a chair. Her lips cracked. One eye swollen shut. Blood on her mouth. Teeth missing.
"J-Jack...?" she whimpered.
Then—
BANG.
A gun appeared in frame. The shot hit her straight in the face.
The call ended.
Jack stared at the black screen.
Then dropped the phone.
And everything in him collapsed.
He screamed, sprinted out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door.
Jack burst out the front door, drenched in blood, pistol clutched tight. Not a good look.
He saw the flashing red-and-blue in the distance — police cars swarming the neighborhood.
No time.
He dove into the stolen BMW, tossed the pistol into the passenger seat, cranked the wheel, and floored it. Tires screamed as the car tore down the street.
As he sped past, Hank Mercer caught a glimpse — red convertible, blood-soaked kid behind the wheel, jaw locked in panic.
"That's Jack!" Hank barked into the radio. "Two units on me — follow that car!"
Jack didn't even register them. Nothing existed except Olivia's house.
Up ahead, two cruisers cut across the street — blocking him in, side by side.
Too tight. Too close. Too fast.
His foot slammed the gas. The BMW's engine howled. His knuckles whitened around the wheel as he yanked right — tires shrieked, rubber burned.
Sparks exploded as the front bumper scraped one squad car. The mirror shattered on the other.
He didn't flinch.
The back end clipped a door — metal groaned, crumpled — but he punched through.
The car rattled like hell, but it was still moving. Still alive.
So was Jack.
No time to think. Just drive.
He tore around a familiar bend — the same spot he'd wrecked his Civic earlier. Officers were gathered, investigating.
Jack barely registered them—until one of them shouted.
"That's him! That's my fucking car!"
The trust fund kid he'd decked.
Didn't matter.
Jack blew past, full throttle, until he reached Olivia's street — now flooded with cop cars and neighbors in pajamas, clutching their chests.
He slammed the brakes.
The car fishtailed slightly before stopping. He leapt out, left the pistol behind.
Gasps. Wide eyes. Fear.
But everyone stepped aside.
Jack didn't stop.
He jumped the yellow crime scene tape like it was nothing and made a break for the house.
Officers shouted after him.
"Stop! Stop!"
One lunged — tried to tackle him.
Jack stepped on the man's shoulder, vaulted right over.
The poor bastard ate pavement.
Inside the house: white crime scene suits. Flashbulbs. Olivia's mom on the floor — lifeless. Eddie the cat being slid gently into a box.
Jack clenched his jaw, hard enough to hurt.
He ran.
Olivia's room. Door cracked open.
He burst in.
And there she was.
Slumped. Pale. Still.
Crime scene investigators turned in shock. Too late.
Jack collapsed beside her and wrapped his arms around her like he could bring her back by force. He sobbed hard, loud, gut-wrenching — the kind of sound that broke through walls.
Officers piled in behind him.
Four of them grabbed him, pulled him away, shoved him face down on the carpet.
He didn't fight. He screamed.
He howled.
Everyone froze.
Even the officers — standing over him — couldn't look away. Some of them blinked, looking like they might cry.
Hank finally pushed through the crowd, breath ragged.
Then he saw Jack on the ground, bloody, broken, screaming Olivia's name.
His voice cracked.
"Oh... boy."
Jack screamed crying:
"You promised Hank! You fucking promised that you would find them, that they wouldn't hurt us! HAAAAAANK!"
End of Prologue: Part III