Chapter 1: It’s Time For Jack to Die

  Jack Thatcher did not know that he was about to die that fateful December evening.

  If he had, he might’ve asked whoever was in charge of such things to reschedule it for a later date, as he was desperately waiting for something.

  For someone.

  Oblivious to his imminent demise, Jack continued on the same dreary path he’d been on for the past year.

  Get up. Go to the car shop. Get yelled at. Work out. Go home. And wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Jack’s fingers tapped impatiently on the black leather of the steering wheel. He counted the twelve seconds this particular light took to shift from red to green again. He waited an additional two seconds to make sure no idiot who might’ve run the red light would crash into his 1967 Chevy Camaro.

  Besides, what were two more seconds of waiting to him? His whole life was just one big limbo, as if fate had decided his time was best spent sitting in idle while the world moved ever onward.

  He shifted his refurbished car out of first gear and turned onto the poorly illuminated street. All the while, his fingers tapped incessantly on the steering wheel.

  Counting. Pacing. Waiting.

  He drove past a vibrant green sign promoting the latest weed shop that had popped up. It shared a parking lot with a Presbyterian Church. The weed shop was bustling and active while the church remained dormant and empty. He heard the distant crash of a stained glass window and grimaced, driving faster.

  Ignoring the somber reminder of the world’s mixed priorities, he reached his destination—Riviero’s 24-hour MMA dojo.

  It was a dingy place, complete with nauseatingly bright neon lights, peeling posters, and tacky graffiti. It was located in the dingiest corner of downtown Portland, Oregon, and had been his sole haven from the drudgery of his life these past months. It was the reason behind the tightening of his stomach, the strengthening of his fists and muscles, and tonight it would be the reason he could briefly escape his failure.

  It had begun to rain at some point between leaving his job and the drive over here, and the constant patter of rain made for an appropriate backdrop to his stormy mood. The dojo’s door chimed as he pulled it open, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He glanced around and spotted only a single other person using the facilities.

  Oddly, he couldn’t spot the owner, Mr. Riviero, anywhere. The balding Italian man had a permanent scowl, but at least he always took the time to nod at Jack when he came in. Some days, that nod was the kindest gesture a person had shown him.

  Granted, Jack was half-convinced the hairy-chested man was connected to the mafia, but it wasn’t like he advertised that next to the fight posters. Besides, Jack was quite accustomed to keeping his head down when the need suited him.

  He quickly glanced at the clock and got his likely reason for Mr. Riviero’s absence. It was past 11.

  Red worked us this late again? Jack idly wondered. Sure, I barely have a life, but this is just getting ridiculous.

  Jack breathed in, taking in the familiar environment.

  The place smelled of sweat and diluted sanitizer, and a single octagon dominated the center of the floor. Above it, a helicopter propeller of a fan hummed to its own constant tune. Around it, the pale, depressing glow of the fluorescent bulbs overhead seemed to drain the color from the world, turning everything into sharp contrasts of light and dark. The only splash of color in the whole space was the pink mana crystal embedded in the fan.

  The crystal’s base extended its thin wires across the majority of the ceiling, attaching to a variety of other machines and outlets. The mechanism, looming over him as it was, struck him as a spider frozen in its web. It was just the latest example of how the world was passing him by while he waited. While his whole life was on pause until he finally got that one damn message.

  All he needed was one message, and his life could resume.

  It had never come.

  A part of him knew—the part that required a near constant supply of punching bags and late nights—that the message he craved would never arrive.

  Shrugging his bag higher up his shoulder, he gave a polite nod to the woman near the back, but she either didn’t see him or simply didn’t care.

  Figures.

  Jack retreated to the back, where the changing rooms were, and got out of his work coveralls and into his workout clothes. His dingy T-shirt was pockmarked with the signs of equal measures of negligence and overuse. His dark gray sweatpants weren’t much better.

  Both bore the full frontal assault of his sweat on countless occasions, and he was growing suspicious that no amount of washing would be able to compensate for that soon.

  He started to wrap the elastic gauze of his hand wrap around his fingers. His thoughts drifted as they always did.

  You failed her. You couldn’t fix it in time.

  He twisted the gauze tighter around his wrist.

  You always do this. Jane’s probably not even surprised at this point that you couldn’t help her. She’s used to it.

  Jack started on the other hand, his legs bouncing to a frenetic pace on the cement floor.

  Jane's probably high right now. Her snake of a boyfriend is there. And you know what he’s done to her. What kind of brother are you?

  He knew the answer to that question, and it fueled him with enough hate to drown the world twice over.

  Jack snatched his boxing gloves from the bag, but paused when his phone chimed. It was in his hand in a second. He frantically clicked the power button, ignoring the cracked screen to read who the text was from.

  [Hunter: Hey, are u still at the shop? I left my mana cutter there. Can u pick it up, plz?]

  Jack cursed, but opened his phone anyway. He ignored his coworker’s request. Instead, he scrolled past and opened the conversation with his sister, Jane.

  All of the past twelve messages had been from him, but he read the final three, all dated within a few weeks of each other.

  [Hey, bug. Just checking in. Do you need anything?]

  [Jane. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything okay?]

  [Happy birthday, bug. I got you a gift. Can you send me your address so I can drop it off?]

  Jack grimaced at that final one. He knew how obviously his desperation must’ve shown through that message, but it had been over ten months since he’d heard from or seen his sister. All he knew was that she’d gotten back with that controlling asshole, and she’d ghosted him ever since.

  A gray ellipse suddenly formed at the bottom of the message thread. Jack’s breath caught in his throat. He waited, his index finger tapping a frantic pace on the back of his phone.

  She’s alive! She’s looking at my messages! We’re going to be okay!

  The elusive gray dots disappeared.

  “No!” Jack hissed through gritted teeth.

  He quickly sent a message to his sister.

  [Hey, bug! Just saw you reading my messages. Are you okay?]

  He pressed send.

  Nothing.

  Jack waited, his palms sweaty beneath the gauze wraps.

  Nearly a full minute later, he received a new notification.

  [Message not sent. Recipient offline. Please try again later.]

  “Dammit!” he shouted.

  Jack Thatcher slammed the metal door of his locker so hard that he could hear its locking mechanism snap under the pressure. At that moment, he didn’t care. Instead, he prowled out of the changing room, his mood blacker than the moonless night outside.

  She saw my messages, Jack thought darkly. Why didn’t she respond? How long does it take to send back a simple response?! Even a ‘stop sending me stupid texts, Jack’ would’ve been preferable to this!

  Jack put on his gloves, pulling the Velcro tighter than necessary. It was time he channeled a fraction of his anger into something other than his thoughts.

  As he exited, he spotted the woman again, this time engaged with a punching bag nearly the same size as she was.

  She had her brunette hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and oversized headphones framed her heart-shaped face. Something about her was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he recognized her, facing away from himself as she was. Still, he resonated with the resolute fury she was pounding into her own sandbag, clearly working out some beef with an invisible foe of her own.

  Jack’s soon-to-be opponent wore his own face, just a few decades older. The young lady’s, he suspected, was likely some younger fool given the bright tears that mixed with her mascara and sweat and the occasional curse followed by a name that sounded like ‘Connor.’ Still, with the animosity she bore toward the bag, he could only suspect that this was the best vengeance she could get at the moment.

  He knew the feeling.

  With a roll of his neck and shoulders, he started to limber up before his workout. His rage screamed at him to lay into a bag already, but he knew this anger well. It would burn bright and long through the night, and so it could wait another accursed minute as he stretched out his tight muscles.

  When he was done warming up, he settled into his favorite boxing stance and began going through a few of the drills he’d long since memorized.

  You left her.

  The thought slammed into his mind with the delicacy of a wrecking ball.

  He slammed his fist home, rocking the sandbag and causing the chains that held it aloft to clink and shudder.

  You always do this.

  He smashed his knee into the bag again, and again, and again.

  You’re still running.

  Sweat and tears started to slide down his face, but he left them both unaddressed as he fought on, pushing past his exhaustion until all he could see and feel was that bag. It was his world. It was his only escape.

  Jack continued on like that, switching between his legs and knees and elbows and fists as the fancy struck him. The drills he’d so meticulously practiced drifted behind his mind and memory as he struggled to expel even a tenth of the blazing rage and grief he felt. Eventually, his body couldn’t go any further. He slumped to the ground, panting.

  The sandbag continued to pendulum back and forth, and he lifted a gloved hand to stop it.

  She’s not coming back.

  This time, the thought held the tone of a verdict rather than an accusation. He knew it to be true and hated himself for it.

  Jack rose to his feet and retreated to the changing rooms. Maybe his couch and a good video game would dull what his workout had not. He tossed his boxing gloves into his bag, but kept his gauze on, too annoyed and tired to deal with it right then.

  Just as he was approaching the only viable exit out of this place, Jack spotted Tony and his three goons heading inside.

  This prick was the worst.

  Tony was a rabid dog with an attitude and a powerful father. He’d beaten Jack in every sparring session they’d ever had together these past months. And while Jack was sure he didn’t remember his name, Jack sure knew his.

  Tony strutted inside the gym like he owned the place, which wasn’t far from the truth. Tony Riviero was the eldest son of Mr. Riviero, and everyone knew he was the favorite child for no other reason than that Tony told them. Repeatedly.

  “Guess who’s home?! It’s Tony!” the short Italian shouted into the mostly empty gym.

  Case in point, Jack thought bitterly.

  They looked around for all of two heartbeats, then made a loud beeline for the young woman. She was currently working a lighter bag near the back. With a sigh of annoyance, he watched as Tony caught the bag she was laying into and held it tightly to his chest, even as he and his lackeys took their time looking her up and down.

  In nothing more than black leggings and a patterned sports bra that seemed to value fashion far more than function, their attention couldn’t have been more obvious. She turned her head more in his direction, and he quietly recognized where he knew her. She was one of the many friends Tony’s ex used to bring here before that crapstorm of a relationship had ended a few weeks ago.

  The woman fumbled with the pause button on her headphones, the tightly wound gloves she wore making the basic task excruciatingly cumbersome.

  “Oh. Hey, Tony. Do you mind? I’m right in the middle of–” the girl said in a tone that threaded the needle between frustrated and polite.

  “How you doin’, Stella? Glad ya came back here tonight. Thought we wouldn’t see you after Marcio dumped your ass,” Tony interrupted. He gestured to the three tiny behemoths behind him. “My boys and I were watching you, and I couldn’t help but notice that your swings could use some coaching,” the prick observed with mock sympathy.

  “It’s Stacy,” she corrected with a deepening scowl.

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  “Stacy. Right,” Tony repeated, clearly not going to remember the name. “Well, what do ya say? I got a big fight comin’ up in a few days. Maybe you could help me warm up?” His voice lowered. “Hell, you could help me warm up a lot of things.”

  Tony’s gaze prowled over her every contour, and she pushed the bag in disgust, knocking the jerk back a step. Tony’s smile tightened until it was razor thin.

  Jack liked to equate social interactions with fighting. It just made sense to him. There were jabs, faints, liver punches, roundhouses to your temple, and test shots to gauge how far you could push someone.

  In that framework, this ‘conversation’ was ripe with jabs and crosses from Tony and his gang.

  Surrounding her with four grown men. Right hook.

  Getting her name wrong. Jab.

  Downsizing her skills to prop up his own. Knee to the kidneys.

  Casual drop that he has a big fight. Uppercut.

  Just like in the octagon, Tony was a tried hand at this. If something didn’t change soon, this woman was going to get backed into a corner she didn’t want to be in. Without a word, Jack stopped at the doors, deciding the couch and self-recrimination he had scheduled could wait.

  If she needed the assist, he would be ready.

  “Stop messin’, Tony. Lyla told me about what you did. If you cheated on her, you’re going to cheat on me. I don’t need that right now.” The unsaid, ‘not again’ to her statement was nearly as loud as the statement itself.

  Jack heard the fear there. The trepidation carefully hidden behind the bravado.

  He knew that feeling too.

  Right then, one of the three goons spotted where he lingered at the door, and Jack hurriedly pretended he was studying the collage of posters and fight promotions tacked beside it.

  He was just starting to peel one of the cutaway slips of paper for a fight Tony was in when he felt more than heard the proud footsteps of the goon. He was moving right for Jack.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Sarah,” Tony said with that same annoying laugh of his that always made people feel like they were idiots for even talking to him. “She just got jealous and started lyin’ about all sorts of things. So, she told you I cheated, right? Bet she didn’t care to mention how much money I stopped giving her just before she went around with those shit rumors, huh?”

  Jack lifted his slip of paper with the dates and details of the fight to the light, using the poor excuse to gauge the thug’s approach and watch the unfolding conversation. But before he could see what happened next between Stacy and Tony, the goon reached him.

  The man loomed over Jack, almost a full head taller than he was. He wore a tracksuit that appeared to be professionally laundered, and his meaty physique stretched it within an inch of its life.

  “We’re closed,” he said in a low, gruff Italian accent.

  Jack looked at him quizzically. “It’s a 24-hour gym, man. Do you know what that means, or are you just that bad at counting?”

  The man sneered and reached past Jack’s head. For a moment, he thought he was going for the neck. But Jack soon heard a metallic CLICK, and glanced over to see the thug turn off the “OPEN” neon sign flashing in the tinted window.

  “As I said, we’re closed. Leave before this gets ugly… For you,” he threatened, even going so far as to crack his knuckles.

  Jack fought to keep down a dark chuckle. “Trust me. You’re going to want to get out of my face.”

  Behind them, Tony gave Stacy a smile that was supposed to be charming but just came off as cruel.

  Tony shrugged. “Anyway, that’s all old news. Besides, she’s the pot. I’m the kettle. Now, you ready to get steamy, or what?”

  What is wrong with this guy? Jack thought. There’s no way that line works… Right?

  Fortunately for his sanity and Stacy’s livelihood, he was proven correct not a moment later.

  “Get real, Tony. Now, leave before I tell your dad one of his employees is harassing me,” Stacy said with that same tight-rope bravado.

  “Oh, my pops ain’t here, baby! And guess who he left in charge? And while you’re at it, guess who accidentally turned off all the cameras?” Tony whispered, his grin twisting into something equal measures lewd and cruel, before he adopted an innocent look. “Now, the trick to a good punch is getting your hips involved in it.”

  Before she could so much as shout, Tony stepped around the punching bag that separated him from the young woman. He grabbed her waist and pulled her against himself.

  “Here, like this,” he whispered into her ear.

  “Let go of me!” She yelled.

  In front of Jack, the thug took another step forward. “It’s time you left.”

  He put his meaty fingers on Jack’s shoulders and squeezed hard.

  “Oh, come on! Don’t be like that. I can show you all sorts of moves if you’ll let me! Maybe my boys could help too! We’re all quite good at coaching the hips into just the right spot,” Tony retorted, his grip like iron on her hips.

  I can fix this. The thought spurred Jack into action.

  In the dark corner of the gym, Stacy threw an elbow back and connected with Tony’s nose.

  “BITCH!” he yelled, letting his grip go so that he could nurse both his wounded face and pride.

  Breathe, Jack reminded himself as he started to act. Keep your shoulders loose. Expect the hit, and you’ll never be surprised when it comes.

  He looked up at Mr. Tracksuit. All of the fury that had been ebbing out of his body returned with a vengeance, and Jack moved in a blur.

  His foot shot forward, performing a spartan kick directly into the man’s groin. He crumpled under the vicious strike, and Jack used his diminished grip to break free and land a second hit with his right elbow against the thug’s jaw.

  The ground shook slightly as the man fell, but Jack was already moving, his footsteps silent and swift.

  “Boys? Hold her down!”Tony was shouting. “When we’re done with you, you’re going to–”

  “Don’t touch her,” Jack said in a lethal calm just behind Tony’s group of muscular meatheads. It was all the civility he could manage in that frozen moment.

  “Oh, yeah? And just what do you think you’re going to–’ the man to Jack’s left—who also had the misfortune of being closest—muttered just before Jack lunged.

  His wrapped fist slammed into the man’s solar plexus and doubled him over. Moving on drilled instinct, Jack didn’t hesitate to finish his favorite combo with a knee to the thug’s proffered nose. Cartilage compressed under his ascending strike, and the man flew back. A thin arc of blood trailed behind his rapid collision with the cement floor.

  One down. Three to go.

  “Wait, where’s Robbie? You motherf–” the next of Tony’s lackeys began.

  Jack didn’t wait for him to finish. His right foot was already hooked around the nearest punching bag and had it whipping toward his next target before the first had entirely fallen. The sandbag collided with his stomach. Jack followed this up with a merciless uppercut to the man’s chin.

  To his mild surprise, Stacy was not sitting idly. Tony was doubled over, likely from a well-aimed kick to his manhood. But she was currently tied up playing a twisted game of ‘tag’ with the final uninjured assailant. She tried to keep a training bag between herself and the last thug, but it was a near thing. He was fast for his size.

  Jack rushed over to help, weaving his way through the small forest of dangling sandbags.

  Her eyes met Jack’s.

  That was when everything took a turn for the worse.

  Stacy’s opponent caught the averted attention and whirled on Jack with a vicious hammerblow, somehow anticipating his imminent ambush. It connected with Jack’s right ear and sent him stumbling back. The first man Jack had attacked kicked at his lower back, having regained enough of his senses to rejoin the fight.

  Jack’s bones crunched on the unforgiving cement as his legs betrayed him under the sudden onrush of pain.

  “YOU–” Tony pointed a calloused finger at Jack’s face from where he was still doubled over in agony.

  More words seemed to bubble up inside the Italian’s reddening face, and, for a moment, none were able to escape.

  But when the words came, they arrived with the heat of a demon. “When I’m done with her, I’m going to break every fucking bone in your body. I’m going to make you wish you had never come to my gym. If you aren’t in a ditch by the end of tonight, you will be drinking out of a straw for the rest of your life. No one messes with Tony Riviero. NO ONE! DO YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

  Jack blinked.

  “Sorry, who are you?” His words were slightly slurred, but he was glad his mocking question had the intended effect.

  Three seconds. It took the self-proclaimed Tony Riviero three seconds to realize Jack was messing with him. It took four for the professional fighter to rush the deadbeat mechanic.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spotted one of the men holding Stacy in a chokehold, one of the painfully thin straps to her sports bra hanging limply down her bicep.

  Everything disappeared.

  The neon lights promoting bars and a weed kiosk outside. The dull hum of the fan. Mana. Tony’s threats. Jane leaving him without warning.

  The beating of his heart.

  Everything.

  All that existed was Jack and four problems to be solved.

  I can fix this.

  In quiet, but discordant, harmony with those weathered words came an all-too-familiar memory. Here, in this dingy dojo, the faces were different, but the stakes and situation were the same. Misdirected strength was being used to get something that was not being offered. He stood in the middle, like a rock attempting to defy a raging river. But unlike last time, he was not a child. Unlike last time, he knew how to fight back.

  A clarity descended on Jack.

  It wasn’t fueled by his rage, though that was certainly his motivating force. No. It was more than that. Tony and his goons were going to do unspeakable things to Stacy and himself if he didn’t act, and act now. He had to end this fight as quickly as possible and ensure they got out of there alive. Barring that, he was going to make sure Stacy got out so that he could guarantee Tony never did anything like this ever again.

  Okay. I can fix this.

  You can’t push me down this time.

  Jack rose to his feet. The first man he’d knocked down came at him again. He breathed in. The first problem threw a wild haymaker at his left temple. He ducked under it and punched twice in such rapid succession they almost sounded like a single gunshot. One fist crashed into the first problem’s cheekbone, while the other whispered through the air and up into his jaw.

  The second problem came, screaming something incoherent. Jack didn’t listen. Instead, he waited. He breathed out. The assailant kicked at Jack’s gut, but he caught the offending limb and twisted. There was a crunch, a scream, and Jack let go.

  He breathed in again.

  The man holding Stacy released his chokehold and rushed forward, the woman collapsing to the ground as she gasped for air. Jack took two steps, meeting the wild charge with loose shoulders and clenched fists. When the third problem dove for him in a tackle that would see his night end in horror, Jack pivoted on his front heel, twisted, and when he felt the man’s weight crash over his back, he shoved, bucking the man off at the same moment he grasped his wrist.

  The man flew through the air, this time not of his own volition. Jack yanked on the man’s wrist with all his might. A popping noise erupted from the thug’s shoulder, and his flight was cut brutally short. Another scream. Another problem solved.

  “Look out!” Stacy croaked, and Jack was too late this time. She tried to move and help him, but was far too slow.

  Something powerful and hard crashed into his face. Light exploded in his vision, and it was all he could do to remain conscious. He knew this pain. He’d felt it once before. But for some reason, this was so much worse. Had time really dulled how much this could hurt? Or was there something else? Something that he missed.

  The caged fluorescents spun in a drunken dance above him, and it took him several moments to realize he’d fallen.

  Another collision slammed into his face, and he felt several of his teeth shift painfully in their sockets. He groaned.

  This was so much worse.

  He tried to crawl away to a spot where he could regain his footing and defend himself.

  He managed the former, but couldn’t quite get to the latter before another blow crashed into his body, this one preceded by a faint glint of metal. He saw the silhouette of Tony backlit by the mana gem overhead, the neon signs outside, a raised fist, and then…

  Metal?

  “You’re going to pay with your life, Mr. Nobody,” Tony was saying.

  How long had he been speaking?

  SLAM

  “No one’s going to find you.”

  SLAM

  There was a pause, followed by a dark chuckle.

  “Hell, no one’s going to look. My pops has disappearing people like you down to a science. It’s a family business, after all.”

  Another dark laugh.

  “Bet you didn’t know that, huh, Mr. Nobody?”

  SLAM

  SLAM

  SLAM

  I have to fix this, Jack thought numbly, but didn’t know where to begin.

  He felt his ribs crack. He blacked out.

  When he came to, Tony was straddling him, fist already raised for another vicious blow. Where he’d crawled, he had an oddly excellent vantage of the only exit out of his gym-turned-hellhole. And so it was with no small amount of chagrin that he noticed a frantic Stacy slam her gloved palms into the door’s tinted glass and rush out into the crisp evening air.

  She paused, then.

  It was only a second, but she did look back. Jack thought she mouthed something. ‘Sorry,’ if he had to guess. What she didn’t know, and what Jack would never have the chance to tell her, was that this was what he wanted. Not the beating, of course. But her getting out of there? Absolutely. Jack could take some broken bones. It was nothing new.

  Besides, maybe this way, his sister could come visit him in the hospital. Hopefully, she’d answer her damn phone if it was the hospital calling on his behalf. He knew all too well how controlling that bastard could be.

  Jack’s attention was sucked back to the present as Tony pressed the brass knuckled into his neck, biting deep into its soft flesh.

  Tony watched Stacy leave before he returned his attention to the bloodied Jack beneath him.

  “You know,” Tony said, reacquiring all of Jack’s flagging focus. “We were just gonna mess around with her. A little tease, a little touch, and then send her on her merry way. But now… Now, everyone will know that someone messed with Tony Riviero. And so now I gotta show that if you ever make that sort of mistake, there’s always going to be a price.”

  He held out his clenched fist. It was there, on that cold December evening, that Jack saw the brass knuckles Tony’s fingers were encased in. Each sharp point of the illegal weapon was tipped with an honest-to-God diamond. And it was there that Jack observed the witness to his demise.

  “So you see,” Tony continued, joining Jack in the study of his brass knuckles. “This isn’t for revenge, or some shit like that. This is for my name! My honor. After this, everyone’s gonna respect me. For that, I gotta thank you, Mr. Nobody.”

  Like black marbles slowly sliding into two entrenched alcoves, Tony’s dark eyes fell on Jack. That look heralded a punch that would ruin Jack’s life forever.

  The next blow came out of nowhere, but the pain exploded everywhere.

  Jack felt his hair getting yanked skyward, and he just had time to blink once before he witnessed Tony’s reinforced fist slice through the air. The massive fan’s pink crystal glowed brightly.

  Was it getting brighter? And why was it flashing at that strange frequency?

  Mana crystals never flashed like that. Never.

  SLAM

  He blacked out for a heartbeat, his body and mind no longer able to fully compute the radiating agony that sped across every nerve and fiber of his body.

  SLAM

  Something in his skull cracked. He heard it. It was all he heard.

  SLAM

  Jack waited for the final punch. He knew he was dying. Hell, he knew he was likely already dead at this point, if the taste of iron drowning his mouth and lungs was anything to go by.

  Waiting there for death, he could see the signs of his demise so clearly now that it was painful. He’d dared to hope that things could change, and got burned for it. There wasn’t any hope for him. He’d never be able to fix his situation, rescue Jane, or rise above this changing world. This was his punishment for all of his failures, and he knew in his bones that he deserved it.

  I couldn’t fix anything, he realized.

  The last shred of the fight in him fled. Jack let out a wheezing breath and waited for the final blow.

  It never came.

  Only his left eye opened when curiosity finally overrode his quiet resignation. He used its smoky lens to figure out what was happening. Where was Tony? It took him a moment to realize the weight on his chest was gone. It took him even longer to discover Tony had backed away, his murderous visage replaced with one of sheer, bloody terror.

  What has he got to be afraid of? Jack thought idly. If he’s terrified of my face, he’s the one who made it look so pretty.

  Darkness started to encroach on Jack’s already filmy vision. It moved and undulated, bubbling at the corners.

  Wait, Jack thought suddenly, a small jolt of panic settling in. He’d blacked out many, many times before. That familiar darkness wasn’t supposed to bubble.

  “What… What are those?” was the last thing Jack heard Tony say.

  He looked for what Tony was talking about, morbid curiosity overriding his need to recover his strength and get some medical assistance.

  Jack felt them before he saw them. Thick white chains were silently snaking out of a carpet of darkness that he appeared to be laying across. In a rush, they speared out of the swirling darkness beneath him, rising toward the ceiling and hovering there for a moment until they rushed back toward Jack’s bloodied and torn body. Their chinks rattled, and Jack heard someone scream.

  They wrapped around his neck, his wrists, his chest. They tightened with a python’s disregard for gentleness. He could feel more than see his vision darkening from their hold around his throat. With a jerking motion, they yanked him backward, then downward, the black carpet of darkness swallowing him whole.

  Before he could cry out, before he could do anything at all, he was torn from this world and thrown into darkness.

  Jack Thatcher’s day had gone so well.

  He’d seen the first glimpse that his sister might still be alive. He’d kept his job despite all odds. He’d stood up for a stranger. He’d tried to be the man he wanted to be.

  And for all of it, death came anyway.

  Not with warning. Not with mercy. Just white chains and darkness and the cold certainty that Jane would think he’d abandoned her.

  He’d never get to tell her he’d tried.

  He’d never get to fix this.

  And that, more than the pain or the fear or the strangeness, was what broke him as the portal swallowed him whole.

  really going on. Can you solve the mystery?