I was back in my room now, tired and exhausted, looking at how my day went. Everything considered… it was good.
My knuckles stung. The skin was split in places, swollen and red, and every time I flexed my hand it reminded me what I'd done out there. I thought I would feel guilty—like beating a man that savagely should've filled me with something heavy and rotten.
But there was nothing.
No guilt. No sickness.
Only a thrill.
A sick excitement in my chest that I didn't want to admit out loud.
I liked the feeling of power. I liked that I could do that to a man in the street and nobody stopped me. Nobody dragged me away. No police, no sirens, no consequences.
I should've been disgusted with myself.
Instead, I felt alive.
And that scared me a little—because I could already tell I might get addicted to it.
I kept thinking how different it would've been in the 21st century. If I did that back home, I'd be arrested in minutes. But the truth hit me hard: it's not about the century.
It's about power.
Even in my old life, the biggest criminals always got away. Not because they were innocent—but because they had the right people, the right money, the right protection. The world didn't punish everyone equally.
It never had.
I stood in front of the mirror and, for the first time, really examined myself.
I was around five foot nine. Lean, on the skinnier side. Not weak-looking, but not impressive either. The kind of body that could disappear in a crowd. Like John, in some ways. But my eyes—Jack's eyes—were strikingly blue. Too bright. Too noticeable. A feature that didn't match the quietness the original Jack had carried for years.
I stripped slowly, staring at the scars across my skin. Old cuts. Bruises that never fully faded. The body of a man who'd survived war but hadn't cared enough afterward to rebuild himself. The alcohol abuse was obvious just looking at me. A body that hadn't been fed properly, hadn't been respected properly.
I exhaled through my nose.
I need to work out.
Not just for strength—for presence. For control. For the way a man looks in a suit when he walks into a room and everyone feels him before he even speaks.
I wanted that.
I wanted to command respect the way Tommy did—without having to shout. Without having to prove it every time.
My gaze hardened.
I called up the system.
The translucent screen slid into the corner of my vision like it belonged there.
PHYSICAL STATUS — JACK SHELBY
Strength: 10 (Average)
Stamina: 8 (Below average)
Vitality: 10 (Average)
Agility: 7 (Below average)
Luck: 4 (Poor)
Perk Points Available: 5
Five.
Just seeing the number made my pulse pick up.
Okay… how do I do this?
The system didn't offer advice. No tips. No warnings. It just waited.
So I treated it like an experiment.
"Let's test it," I muttered.
I focused on Strength first and pushed one point into it.
The change was immediate—but not like some cartoon where muscles suddenly pop out of nowhere.
It was… density.
My forearm tightened when I clenched my fist, like the strength had always been there and someone finally unlocked it. My grip felt heavier, more certain. When I squeezed my hand, the tendons pulled clean and strong instead of aching.
I stared at my knuckles, then clenched again.
One point… and I can feel it.
That was terrifying.
And addictive.
I swallowed and moved to Stamina next.
Two points.
Heat spread through my chest and lungs, like my breath expanded. The fatigue in my shoulders eased—not completely, but enough that I noticed the difference right away. Like the day's weight had been lifted just a bit.
This is what Jack should've been like before the drink ruined him.
Then I put the remaining two points into Agility.
At first, it felt like a sharp sting behind my eyes. A brief burning sensation that made me blink hard.
Then my vision… steadied.
Not clearer like a magic trick—steadier like I could track movement better. Like my balance shifted into place. My feet felt more connected to the floor, less clumsy.
I rolled my shoulders, then took a step, and it felt smoother than it should've.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"This is… insane."
Not invincible.
Not unkillable.
But I wasn't fragile anymore.
I wasn't the useless version of Jack Shelby that John had mocked in that room.
I could build myself into something else.
I stood there for a moment, mind racing with possibilities—fights, collections, controlling a room, surviving longer than the next man—
And then it hit me.
Hunger.
Not a normal hunger. A sudden, violent emptiness in my stomach like I hadn't eaten in days. My body demanded fuel immediately, like the system had lit a fire inside me and now wanted payment.
A new line appeared without emotion.
Notice: Metabolic strain detected.
Recommendation: Eat and rest.
I laughed once, short and breathless.
"Of course," I whispered. "Nothing's free."
I dragged myself to the wash basin, cleaned the dried blood from my hands, then took a quick shower. The hot water stung my bruises and cuts, but it helped. It made me feel real again.
When I finally lay down, the room felt too quiet.
The thrill from earlier was still there, faint under my skin. The memory of James on his knees. The crowd watching. The power of it.
And a part of me—the part I didn't like—wanted more.
I stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly.
Tomorrow I start planning.
Not just how to integrate myself deeper into the Shelby family…
But how to do it without losing myself completely.
Because enjoying violence made me dangerous.
And in a world like this, being dangerous wasn't the problem.
The problem was becoming predictable.
I shut my eyes.
Outside, Birmingham kept breathing.