Jax couldn't sleep.
He lay on the bed; the nice bed, with the frame and the mattress that didn't smell like mildew, and stared at the ceiling. The same smooth, crack-free ceiling he'd been staring at for hours. Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, his head was anything but.
He kept thinking about the basement. The cables around his arms. The demon's mouth opening, those fiber-optic teeth gleaming in the dark.
And then, that heat.
He held his hand up in the darkness, turning it slowly. Normal. Just skin and bone and the faint scars he'd accumulated over years of fighting. No red glow. No pulsing light beneath the surface.
But it was there. He knew it was there. He could feel it; not active, not awake, but present. Like an engine idling in his chest, waiting for the right trigger to roar to life.
He closed his eyes. Tried to reach for it. Tried to summon that feeling; the heat, the strength, the power that had let him tear through cables like they were nothing.
Nothing.
He tried harder. Clenched his fists. Focused on his heartbeat, willing it to speed up, to race, to push him toward that edge—
Still nothing.
"Fuck," he muttered, dropping his hand.
The power only came when death was close. When his body was broken and his heart was failing and everything in him was screaming that this was the end. That was the trigger. That was the key.
He couldn't just decide to use it. He had to earn it. With blood. With pain. With years burned off the back end of a life that was already too short.
Fifty years. That's what Emil had said. Fifty years total, and he'd already burned through nineteen just by existing. Every time he redlined, he lost more. How much had he spent in the warehouse? How much in the basement, even with that partial flicker?
He didn't know. Couldn't know. The meter was running and he couldn't see the numbers.
He rolled over and stared at the wall instead. The nice, smooth, crack-free wall.
Sleep didn't come.
The debrief was scheduled for 10 AM.
Jax showed up at 9:45, partly because he had nothing else to do and partly because he was hoping the facility's cafeteria had coffee. It did. The coffee was terrible, burnt and bitter and served in a styrofoam cup that made everything taste faintly like chemicals, but it was free and it was caffeine and that was enough.
He was on his second cup when Zion walked in.
The team leader looked... normal. That was the unsettling part. After yesterday, after the screaming and the stabbing and the trembling hands, Jax had expected something different. Haunted eyes, maybe. A crack in the armor. Some sign that the breakdown had happened.
Instead, Zion walked in like it was any other day. Tactical gear pristine. Posture perfect. Expression blank and professional. He glanced at Jax, nodded once, barely an acknowledgment, and took a seat at the far end of the table.
They didn't speak.
Luna arrived at 9:58, cutting it close. She looked worse than Zion; dark circles under her eyes, her usual carefully-constructed outfit replaced by sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. Her cat-ear beanie was still in place, but it sat crooked on her head, like she'd jammed it on without looking in a mirror.
She didn't look at either of them. Just dropped into a chair, pulled out her iPod, and started scrolling.
The silence stretched.
At exactly 10:00, Emil walked in.
"Good morning, Echo Team!" His voice was bright, cheerful, completely at odds with the tension in the room. Those purple eyes swept over each of them, cataloging, assessing, and his smile widened. "Everyone sleep well? You all look terrible. Jax, is that your second or third coffee?"
"Third," Jax said.
"Wonderful. Nothing like caffeine and sleep deprivation to start the day." Emil settled into his chair at the head of the table, tablet in hand. "Now then. Let's talk about yesterday."
He tapped the screen, and the projector hummed to life. Photos appeared on the whiteboard; the Bell Atlantic building, the basement, the Switchboard's corpse.
"Class C demon, successfully neutralized. No civilian casualties. No agent fatalities." Emil's smile didn't waver. "By any objective measure, that's a win. Congratulations."
No one said anything.
"That said," Emil continued, "I'm more interested in the subjective details. Zion, your report mentioned that Jax exhibited signs of partial Redline activation during the encounter. Can you elaborate?"
Zion's jaw tightened. "His veins were glowing. He broke free from the demon's cables with enhanced strength. It lasted approximately three to four seconds before fading."
"Fascinating." Emil leaned forward, those purple eyes bright with interest. "Jax. Tell me what you felt."
Jax shifted in his seat. All eyes were on him now; Emil's eager, Zion's flat, Luna's... complicated. She'd looked up from her iPod, he realized. Was actually watching him.
"It was... different," he said slowly. "In the warehouse, I don't remember anything. I died, and then I woke up covered in blood with the demon in pieces. But yesterday, I felt it happening. The heat building in my chest. My heart speeding up. I could feel the power... revving, I guess. Like an engine."
"But you didn't fully activate," Emil said. "You didn't black out. You didn't lose control."
"No. It was like..." Jax struggled to find the words. "Like I was right at the edge. One more second, one more push, and I would've gone over. But I didn't."
"Because the immediate threat was removed," Emil said, nodding. "Zion intervened before your body crossed the threshold. The trigger, your proximity to death, was eliminated before full activation could occur."
"I guess so, yeah."
Emil was smiling now; that wide, delighted grin that made Jax's skin crawl. "This is excellent news, Jax. Better than I'd hoped."
"How is almost dying excellent news?"
"Because it means you're developing awareness." Emil stood up and started pacing, his excitement palpable. "Most Surge-type Wired never feel their ability coming. It just... happens. They black out, wake up, deal with the aftermath. But you—you felt the buildup. You experienced the transition consciously. That's rare, Jax. That's potentially trainable."
"Trainable how?"
"Think of it like a car engine." Emil was in full lecture mode now, hands moving as he spoke. "Right now, your Redline only activates when the engine redlines; when you push it past the safe limit, when the whole system is about to blow. But what if you could learn to operate at high RPMs without crossing into the red? What if you could access some of that power; the enhanced strength, the speed, the durability, without triggering a full activation?"
Jax thought about it. The heat he'd felt in the basement. The way his veins had glowed. The strength that had let him snap those cables.
"Would that still cost me?" he asked. "Years, I mean."
Emil's smile flickered, just for a moment. "Everything costs something, Jax. But a partial activation? Idling at the edge without going over? The cost would be significantly less than a full Redline. Minutes instead of months. Maybe even seconds, if you learn to control it precisely enough."
"And how do I learn that?"
"Practice." Emil's eyes glittered. "Controlled exposure to near-death stimuli. Stress tests. Pushing you toward the edge in a safe environment, then pulling you back before you go over. Gradually expanding your ability to access the power without triggering a full activation."
"You want to almost kill him," Zion said flatly. "Repeatedly. On purpose."
Emil turned to look at him. "I want to help him control his ability. Unless you'd prefer he remain a liability who freezes in combat and nearly gets himself eaten?"
Zion's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.
"We've done this before," Emil continued, his voice softer now. "With other Surge-types. The methodology is sound. The risks are managed. And the alternative, leaving Jax untrained, unable to access his power except in moments of genuine mortal peril, is far more dangerous for everyone."
"He's not a lab rat," Luna said.
Everyone turned to look at her. She was still holding her iPod, still slouched in her chair, but her eyes were fixed on Emil with something that looked almost like defiance.
"I'm sorry?" Emil raised an eyebrow.
"I said he's not a lab rat." Luna's voice was flat. "You can't just strap him to a table and torture him until he learns to glow on command. That's not training. That's—"
She stopped. Looked away. Something had flickered across her face, something dark and personal, before she shut it down.
"That's what?" Emil asked, his voice gentle. Too gentle.
"Nothing." Luna shoved her earbuds in. "Forget it."
Jax stared at her. That was the closest thing to defending him she'd ever done. It wasn't much, wasn't even really about him, he suspected, but it was something.
Emil watched Luna for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to Jax, the cheerful mask sliding back into place.
"We'll start slow," he said. "No tables. No torture. Just controlled exercises, carefully monitored. You'll have full autonomy to stop at any time. Sound fair?"
Jax didn't know if it sounded fair. He didn't know if anything about this situation was fair. But he knew he couldn't keep freezing in combat. Couldn't keep being the liability that nearly got everyone killed.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
"Excellent." Emil clapped his hands together. "We'll schedule your first session for—"
Luna's Blackberry buzzed.
She glanced at it. Frowned. Silenced it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
Luna's face went pale. She stood up abruptly, nearly knocking her chair over.
"I need to take this," she said, and her voice was different; tight, controlled, the sarcasm stripped away completely. "Sorry."
She was out the door before anyone could respond.
Emil watched her go, his expression thoughtful. "Interesting."
"Should someone check on her?" Jax asked.
"Luna can take care of herself," Zion said flatly. But his eyes had followed her out the door, and there was something in his expression that might have been concern.
Emil tapped his tablet, making a note. "I'm sure it's nothing. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, training schedule. Jax, let's plan for your first session tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Don't eat breakfast, you'll just throw it up."
He smiled.
Jax didn't smile back.
Luna came back five minutes later.
The meeting had moved on; Emil outlining next steps, Zion asking logistical questions in a flat monotone, but Jax had been watching the door. Waiting.
When Luna walked in, she looked like a different person.
Not different in an obvious way. She was still wearing the same clothes, still had the same crooked beanie, still moved with that practiced disinterest that seemed to be her default setting. But something behind her eyes had changed. A light had gone out, or a wall had gone up, or both.
She sat down without a word. Didn't reach for her iPod. Didn't look at anyone.
"Everything alright?" Emil asked, his voice light.
"Fine," Luna said.
"You look pale."
"I said I'm fine."
Emil held her gaze for a moment. Those purple eyes seemed to see right through her; cataloging, analyzing, filing away whatever he found for later use.
"If you say so," he said finally, and turned back to his tablet. "Now, let's discuss next week's assignments..."
Jax watched Luna out of the corner of his eye.
Her hands were shaking. Just slightly, barely visible, but they were shaking. And she was holding her Blackberry under the table, her thumb moving across the trackball in small, frantic gestures.
Deleting something, maybe. Messages. Evidence.
He looked away before she could catch him staring.
Whatever was going on with Luna, it wasn't his business. She'd made that abundantly clear. She didn't want his help, didn't want his attention, didn't want anything from him except for him to not exist.
So why couldn't he stop thinking about the fear he'd seen in her eyes?
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
After the debrief, Emil disappeared into his office. Zion went to the training facility; Jax saw him through the observation window, running combat drills alone, his movements precise and mechanical. Working out whatever demons were still clawing at him from yesterday.
Luna vanished entirely. One minute she was in the hallway; the next, she was gone. Jax didn't see her leave.
He wandered the facility for a while, trying to learn the layout. Cafeteria. Armory. Medical wing. Research labs with doors that required clearance levels he didn't have. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, a maze of corridors and rooms that seemed to go on forever.
Eventually, he gave up and went back to the apartment.
The Rittenhouse Arms felt even stranger the second time. The doorman gave him the same polite horror look as before; apparently clean clothes didn't help when you still looked like you'd crawled out of a storm drain. The elevator was too quiet. The hallway was too clean.
He stopped outside his door, key in hand, and looked at the doors on either side.
Zion's apartment. Quiet. Dark under the door. Luna's apartment. Also quiet. Also dark.
He went inside and didn't come out.
At 2 AM, Jax woke up to the sound of a voice.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch; hadn't meant to, but the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. The TV was on, casting flickering blue light across the room, some late-night infomercial playing at low volume.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
The voice was coming from the hallway. Muffled through the door, but audible. A woman's voice. Speaking fast, urgent, in a language that wasn't English.
Spanish.
Jax got up quietly and moved to the door. Pressed his ear against it.
"—no tengo el dinero, lo sabes—"
Luna. On the phone. In the hallway at 2 AM.
He didn't speak Spanish, not really. But he knew the sound of it. Knew the rhythm, the cadence, the way the words ran together when someone was talking too fast. He'd grown used to hearing it through thin walls in North Philly, listening to the Garcias across the street fight every morning at six o'clock before Mr. Garcia left for his shift at the warehouse.
He knew what fear sounded like in any language.
"—por favor, necesito más tiempo—"
That word he recognized. Por favor. Please. Mrs. Garcia used to say it when she was crying, when the fights got really bad, when her voice went high and thin and desperate. Por favor, por favor, por favor.
Luna's voice had that same quality now. That same tremor underneath the words.
Jax opened his door a crack and looked out.
Luna was standing by the window at the end of the hall, her back to him. She was dressed in dark clothes; jeans, a black hoodie, her hair loose around her shoulders. One hand held her Blackberry pressed to her ear. The other was clenched in a fist at her side, trembling.
"—no, escúchame—"
The voice on the other end said something. Even from here, Jax could hear that it was male. Deep. Cold.
Luna flinched like she'd been hit.
"—sí, entiendo. Entiendo." Her voice had gone flat. Defeated. "Una semana. Sí."
She lowered the phone. Stood there for a moment, staring out the window at the city lights, her shoulders tight.
Then she turned around.
And saw Jax.
For a split second, her face was naked. Raw. He saw fear there; real fear, the kind that lived in your head, and exhaustion, and something that might have been grief.
Then the mask slammed back down.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" She was already storming toward him, her voice rising. "Are you spying on me? What kind of creepy-ass—"
Jax slammed the door.
He heard her reach it a second later, heard her hand slap against the wood, heard her voice, muffled but furious: "—don't you ever—fucking pervert—"
Then silence.
Footsteps, retreating. A door opening and slamming shut. 810.
Jax stood with his back against his door, heart pounding, staring at nothing.
Por favor, she'd said. Please.
Luna didn't say please. Luna said fuck you and get out of my way and I hope you choke on your own blood. Luna didn't beg. Luna didn't tremble. Luna didn't sound like Mrs. Garcia at six in the morning, crying through the walls.
But she had. Just now. On the phone with whoever was on the other end.
She'd said please, and she'd meant it.
Jax walked back to the couch and sat down heavily. The TV was still on, still playing that same infomercial, some guy enthusiastically demonstrating a food dehydrator, but he wasn't seeing it. Wasn't hearing it.
He was thinking about Luna. About the fear in her voice. About whoever was on the other end of that call, making her sound like that.
It wasn't his business. She'd made that clear. She didn't want his help, didn't want him involved, didn't want anything from him.
But sitting there in the dark, remembering the sound of her voice; por favor, necesito más tiempo, he felt something stir in his chest.
Not the Redline. Not that heat, that power.
Something else.
What do you want in life, Jax?
Emil's question. The one he still couldn't answer. Money and food were needs, not wants. But what did he actually want?
He thought about Luna's voice breaking on por favor. About the fear in her eyes before she'd hidden it behind anger. About the way she'd defended him in the meeting, he's not a lab rat, even though she hated him.
He didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know if he'd ever know.
But for the first time in his life, he felt like he was close to figuring it out.