Sunny day in Houston, Texas. Kids laughed and chased each other outside while their parents lounged under sun umbrellas, sipping cold lemonade, letting the heat wash over them.
Jack opened the front door, stepping out into the blinding sun. He shielded his eyes with a hand and made his way toward his mother, who smiled at him from her seat.
"Goin' outside in this heat?" she asked.
"Yeah, Mom. I'll be back for dinner," Jack replied.
He leaned in, letting her kiss his cheek. Across the yard, his dad caught his eye and gave a subtle wink — the kind that said "I know where you're headed, son." Jack just grinned, not thinking too much about it, and unlocked his 2007 Civic — the car his dad had proudly bought him a few months back.
As he opened the door, his dad called out:
"Drive safe now, O'Conner!"
Jack chuckled under his breath. "Of course, Dad. Don't worry."
He started the engine, slid his sunglasses on, and headed toward Olivia's house. Halfway there, he swung through Starbucks for an iced coffee, texting her a quick "OMW" before getting back on the road. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to her place, heart beating a little faster.
A new message flashed across his screen: "Alright babe, I'll take a bath. Door's open — just walk in. Nobody's home but me."
Grinning wider, Jack pocketed his phone and headed for the front door. He didn't knock — just walked in like she said.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the AC. As he stepped into the living room, Eddie, Olivia's ginger cat, lifted his head lazily.
"Hey, Eddie. Mommy feed you today?" Jack asked, reaching down to scratch behind the cat's ears.
Eddie meowed once, rolled onto his side, and promptly dozed off again. Jack smiled and shook his head. "Wonder if he acts like that around Liv too," he thought.
He looked around, but Olivia was nowhere in sight. Cautiously, he made his way toward the bathroom, knocking lightly on the door.
No response.
A prickle of worry ran down his spine. He knocked again, louder. "Liv? You still in there?"
Still nothing.
Jack's mind, always a worst-case-scenario machine, kicked into overdrive. He shouted through the door, hand already reaching for the handle: "Hey Liv! I'm coming in, okay?"
Just as he turned it, a voice echoed from the hallway behind him.
"God, Jack, you're so paranoid," Olivia said, laughing as she walked toward him, towel-drying her hair.
She wore an oversized white T-shirt and black shorts, her wet blonde hair clinging to her shoulders, leaving damp marks on the fabric. Water dripped from the ends of her hair, making tiny splashes on the hardwood floor.
Jack exhaled sharply, his muscles unclenching.
"You could've slipped and hit your head," he muttered. "Would it kill you to just shout back and say you're fine?"
Olivia just smiled, bright and teasing.
"I mean, you didn't even give me a chance. I was walking toward the door," she said, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair.
Jack shook his head — he knew arguing with her was a losing battle.
"Alright, alright. Sorry," he said, then added with a smirk, "You look prettier, by the way. New face mask?"
Both smiled, and she walked toward him, kissing him on the cheek. Jack chuckled and said, "Yeah, right where my mom kissed me before I headed out."
Her face turned mock-angry as she wiped her lips, saying, "Fine, go back to your momma. She can kiss you more, then."
She stormed off to the kitchen, and Jack laughed, following after her. He hugged her from behind and said, "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Just a stupid joke. I'm stupid."
She nodded approvingly. "At least I don't have to tell you that."
She chuckled and asked, "Want something to cool you down? It's burning outside."
Jack shook his head. "I just had a cold coffee."
Olivia fixed herself another iced coffee as Jack leaned against the counter. "You heard what happened to Liam's little sister?" he asked.
Her smile faded instantly. "Yeah. Terrible. Three days now, right? Since they last saw her? I can't imagine being a kid and going through whatever she's been through. She must be terrified. And Liam... and his dad... they must be losing their minds searching for her."
Jack took a deep breath, the weight of it all pressing down on him.
"I can't even imagine," he muttered. "If Sophie or Luke went missing... I wouldn't know what to do. Where to even start looking. I can't imagine the scenarios rolling through his head. Hope they find her."
Olivia finished making her drink, dropping in the last ice cube. She turned toward Jack, forcing a lighter tone.
"God, you're a mood killer. Wanna watch a movie?"
Jack shook off the heavy thoughts.
"Yeah. The one we talked about, right? The one where that crazy German dude stitches people together?"
Olivia snapped back immediately, marching toward the living room couch.
"FUCK NO, JACK CARTER! I told you yesterday and I'm telling you again — no way! I don't even know what you find interesting about that fucked-up idea."
Jack grinned and followed her, plopping onto the couch.
"I mean, it's infamous, right? There must be some deeper joke or message inside?"
Olivia grabbed the remote, stroking Eddie the cat as he hopped into her lap.
"Even if it's the funniest movie in the world, or has the deepest message... I'm not watching a movie about people getting their faces stitched to other people's asses."
She scrolled quickly through the options.
"I already know what we're watching: Meet Joe Black."
Jack sighed — another lost argument.
"Alright then. Roll it."
They settled in. Olivia leaned her head against Jack's shoulder, and Jack propped his legs up on the ottoman.
An hour passed.
Olivia paused the movie and said, "Bathroom break."
Jack nodded. "Good call. Me too."
She walked off. Jack picked up his phone from the coffee table, where he'd left it on silent.
28 missed calls from Mom. 43 from Dad.
His blood turned to ice.
"What the hell...?"
He unlocked his phone. Message after message flooded the screen, but one line punched through:
"We can't find your brother. When did you last see him?"
He called his mom immediately. She picked up on the first ring, her voice shaking.
"Mom, what do you mean you can't find Luke?" Jack demanded.
"Where the hell are you?!" she screamed back. "We've been calling you for an hour! We can't find him anywhere. We're at the police station. Check your car — maybe he hid inside?"
Jack swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his forehead.
"The last time I saw him... he was playing in front of you, Mom. Okay, okay, I'm coming. I'm coming right now."
The bathroom door creaked open behind him. Olivia stepped out, towel in hand.
The couch was empty.
Jack's already running.
He started the car, slammed it into gear, handbrake down — no time to waste. One hand on the wheel, the other whipping out his phone, voice trembling as he barked, "Where's the police station?"
The phone lit up directions, balancing on the holder as he roared into the main road. Downshift into a corner — tires screaming — somehow kept the Civic stable. Main road: packed with cars. But there were gaps. Openings.
Pedal down. No thinking. Just move.
Getting there wouldn't make Luke appear out of thin air, but Jack didn't care. He needed to reach point B. He needed to finish.
As he weaved dangerously between traffic, his mind flashed back — Olivia. Liam. His sister missing.
His chest tightened. "God, please... not that. Please help him. Help us."
He passed another car, close enough to scrape mirrors. No time. No choice.
Traffic lights ahead. Red.
Jack's gut screamed at him to stop — but his hands crushed the wheel tighter.
"I can't stop. Not right now. Please, God, let me pass."
He floored it, shifting gears hard enough to rattle the car, the horn blaring nonstop. One hundred meters. Cars closing in from the right. Too fast. No way to brake. No way to turn safely.
And then — the world changed.
Colors faded. Everything washed in cold blue. Time slowed to a crawl.
Jack blinked — and saw it: not just the road in front of him — the whole street from above.
Like chess pieces frozen mid-move, every car, every path laid out.
"This is insane... it's just like before."
Flashback — Backyard, Years Ago
Jack was eight years old, swinging a kid-sized bat in the front yard. His father tossed baseballs toward him, patient, smiling.
First ball — miss. Second — miss. Third — wild swing.
Frustrated, Jack had thrown the bat down.
His father walked up, kneeling so their eyes met.
"Son," he said, grinning, "you're missing because you're looking at the ball. Stop. Look at me. Focus before I throw. And if that doesn't work — close your eyes and look everywhere at once."
Jack had nodded, confused but willing. His father raised his arm to throw again.
And just before the ball left his hand — the world slowed down.
Blue-tinted. Air thick like syrup. Leaves hung frozen mid-air.
Jack had seen the ball's path clearly. It crawled toward him so slowly, he almost yawned.
He realized — "I don't have to swing fast. I can just line the bat into the ball's path."
He shifted the bat calmly, barely moving — and when normal time returned, crack — the ball bounced neatly to his father's feet.
His father had whooped with pride.
Jack never forgot.
He used it sometimes: cheating on tests. Sinking impossible basketball shots. Fights in alleyways.
A trick for survival.
Back to Present
Jack's mind snapped back into the blue-filtered street. Bird's-eye view. Frozen cars. Golden paths.
"Best route. Find the best route."
He analyzed — speeds, angles, trajectories. Spotted the only gap wide enough to thread through.
"The SUV on the left was slower than it looked — he had time to slice past it before the next sedan blocked the gap."
"Yes. You. Golden path."
Normal colors rushed back.
Jack cranked the wheel right — slashed between two speeding SUVs — downshifted fast enough to make the engine whine — caught a brief slide into a near-drift — corrected before the rear spun out.
Alive.
Still moving.
Still fighting.
He was alive.
He was out of danger. A couple more turns, a few more sways around cars — and he was there.
Jack slowed down, drifted hard in front of the police station, yanked the handbrake up. Jumped out, left the car door swinging open behind him. Sprinted inside.
The whole station was already on alert — screeching tires had that effect. He didn't care. He locked eyes with a young female officer standing near the front desk and shouted:
"Where are the Carters?!"
The officer froze, still clutching her coffee mug, staring wide-eyed at the wild young man. She could see the urgency, the pure panic in his eyes.
Jack grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, voice cracking:
"CARTERS?!"
She flinched, reaching down for her shock pistol —
Then a familiar voice called out across the station:
"Jack? Over here, baby. C'mere now!"
Jack spun around toward the sound. Left the officer behind, who sagged with relief as he rushed away.
He reached his parents — Victor and Lydia Carter. No sign of Sophie.
He asked, voice shaking:
"Where's Sophie?"
Lydia got up from her seat, wrapped Jack in a tight, desperate hug, and said:
"We left her with the Hanleys, baby. Ain't no place for little ones here."
Jack exhaled hard, hugging his mom back.
"Okay... okay. Where is he? What happened, Mom?"
Victor stood up — 6'3", a cowboy hat perched on his head, a thick mustache gone mostly white. Built like an ox. Not born Texan, but after seventeen years in Houston — he became one. Fashion, mannerisms, even his drawl — it all settled in.
He pointed to the chair with a nod.
"Sit."
Victor wasn't a man of many words. Old-school. Quiet respect, hard lines, never much for punishment — that job usually fell to Lydia.
Jack sat. Victor rested a heavy hand on his shoulder — solid, grounding — as Jack turned toward the officer across the table.
The man leaned in — a seasoned veteran, mid-50s, worn like old leather. Detective Hank Mercer.
He linked eyes with Jack and spoke low and steady:
"Son, before I ask ya anything, you need to calm yourself, alright? Ain't nothin' definite yet — so don't be thinkin' the worst."
Jack nodded stiffly. Swallowed hard like a kid in trouble.
Hank continued:
"Your little brother — Luke. When's the last time you saw him?"
Lydia clenched her fists. Her voice broke as she half-yelled:
"Hank, this is nonsense! We already told y'all everythin' we know!"
She stood up, words pouring out, fast and ragged:
"Luke was outside playin' with the neighbor kids — we were right there! I was sittin' drinkin' lemonade, Victor was out back fixin' the fence. Jack left 'bout an hour before it happened. Maybe five, six minutes after he drove off, I went inside to do the laundry, Victor went to the garage for some tools. Couple more minutes, I came out to call the kids for lemonade — and Luke was just... gone. We searched everywhere, Hank — the whole damn neighborhood! House to house! Even the woods. He ain't there. We drove straight here soon as we realized."
Her voice cracked fully at the end. Victor reached over, squeezed her hand silently.
Jack sat frozen. Mind screaming. Body locked. Chest pounding.
Jack spoke after ten seconds of silence, his mother silently weeping:
"Sir, what are you doin' to find my brother? And what can I do?"
Hank leaned back, puffed his chest a little — almost proudly — and said:
"Don't you worry, son. I done alerted every cop in Houston. We moved fast — every uniform in the city's got your brother's picture. Now, after a time — God forbid — if he don't show up in a couple, three hours, I'm settin' up a search party to look for him in George Bush Park. But hopefully, we won't need that. Kids this age wander off while playin', forget the way back home. He's six years old. Keep your mind easy — we'll find 'im."
Jack exhaled — but wasn't relieved. Not until he saw his brother again.
Hank continued:
"Son, best thing you can do right now is take care o' your mama and your little sister — let your daddy focus on findin' your brother. You understand?"
Jack nodded:
"Yes, sir."
His father tightened his grip on Jack's shoulder — getting his attention. Jack turned his head toward him.
Victor said in his usual rough, quiet tone:
"Son... take your mama, head on back to the house. Get your little sister from the Hanleys. Eat somethin'. Wait."
Jack nodded again — no other words needed. Orders were orders.
He turned back to Hank and asked, trying to keep his voice steady:
"Sir, my friend Liam Collins from school — he lost his sister three days ago..."
But right as he tried to finish his sentence, Victor's grip tightened hard. Hank's face soured.
Hank flicked his eyes toward Lydia — Jack understood immediately. This wasn't the time to bring up nightmares in front of his already broken mother. Strong woman — but a mother all the same.
No need to flood her mind with more fear.
Jack stood up, gently took his mother's hand, and led her toward the car. She was so lost in sadness she didn't even notice that Jack had left the Civic running — driver's door wide open, parked sideways across the station lot.
The drive home was heavy. Silent.
When they arrived, his mother quietly crossed the street to the Hanleys' and brought Sophie back home.
Jack went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and handed it to his mother.
"You need anything, Mom?" he asked gently.
She drank half the glass, then whispered:
"No, baby... I just need to lay down. Can you keep an eye on your sister? Don't tell her about... all this."
Jack nodded:
"Of course, Mom. Go to sleep — I'll wake you up if Dad calls."
She nodded and shuffled off toward the bedroom.
Jack made his way to Sophie's room. Found her lying on the floor, playing games on her tablet.
He smiled, laid down beside her, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
Sophie grumbled, wiping her forehead like she'd been personally offended.
Jack chuckled and asked:
"Sophie, why're you on the floor? Why don't you lay down on your bed? You'll catch a cold."
"I don't wanna," she muttered.
"Hmm. Okay, then. What're you playin'?"
Sophie huffed — the classic eight-year-old little sister tone — and yelled:
"Jack, leaaaaveeeee!"
Jack raised his hands in surrender:
"Okay, okay, Miss Grumpy."
He smiled to himself as he stood, letting her sink back into her little world, oblivious to the storm brewing outside.
It was brewing inside Jack too. He made it to the living room, but his whole body was restless, burning with helplessness. He loved his little brother. Loved him fiercely. And he was here — useless — while Luke was God knows where.
He needed something — anything — to drown out the storm inside him.
Jack checked his still-silent phone. Eight missed calls. Olivia.
A jolt of guilt stabbed through him. He had left in such a rush, not even a word thrown over his shoulder.
He called her. Third ring — she picked up.
"Jack? Jesus — what happened? You ran out like a damn storm. If you wanted to leave, you could've just said so."
Her voice was rough — half joking, half cracked at the edges.
Jack swallowed the lump in his throat.
"It's Luke," he said. "He's missing."
Silence. Then her tone shifted instantly — all the anger draining out of it.
"Jack... oh my God. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm such a dumbass."
"No. I should've told you."
"You need anything? Anything at all?"
Jack was about to say no. The word was halfway to his lips — but something sparked behind his eyes.
"Yeah. Liv — I need you to come over. Watch Sophie. I can't leave Mom alone, not like this — but I can't sit here and rot either. I have to move. I have to do something."
She didn't hesitate.
"I'll call an Uber. I'm on my way."
"Thank you."
He ended the call, staring at the dead screen. His chest heaved once — a breath too shallow to fill his lungs.
"Dad's gonna kill me for this," he thought bitterly. "But I can't just sit here and wait for a call that might never come."
He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, forehead heavy against his palms.
The other hand ran automatically through his black hair — a nervous tick since he was a kid. Back then, it meant he was worried about failing a test. Now, it meant life or death.
"If I was Luke... if I wasn't taken... if I was just a scared little kid... where would I go?"
Jack shut his eyes. Hard.
Dove into memory.
He built the scene around him again — the yard, the heat, the kids shrieking and spraying water everywhere. His mother, lemonade glass sweating in the sun. His father, hammering the fence, sweat soaking the back of his shirt.
Jack whispered to himself:
"How do you disappear in broad daylight?"
He twisted deeper into the memory.
Mom — gone inside. Dad — in the garage.
Only the kids left — wild, scattered, too young to watch each other.
Jack gritted his teeth.
"A distraction," he muttered. "That's the only way."
Something big enough — loud enough — exciting enough — to break their focus. Create a gap. Create a moment.
Jack dug deeper, mind spinning through possibilities like a desperate man turning over rocks in the desert, hunting for water.
He pictured it:
Himself — sinking down, down — into an endless blue ocean. The kids were still there, little blurry shapes above him, laughing, unaware. He was almost out of reach.
"What pulled their eyes away?" "What gave Luke the time?"
He searched every fragment of memory — every tiny forgotten second —
chasing the answer through the dark.
He opened his eyes and muttered, "Need to see it myself."
Some time later, Olivia arrived. She kissed him and hugged him tightly. Jack said:
"Thank you for coming. Sophie loves hangin' out with you more than me. Mom's sleepin' inside."
"Okay, baby. You headin' out now?"
"Yeah. Wasted enough time sittin' down. I can't just stay put."
"Okay. Call me if you find anything... or need anything."
Jack nodded, kissed her, and left the house. He walked down the road, past neighbors' cars, past the silent yards — headed toward the spot where the kids had been playing.
He slowed his steps. Focused.
There had to be something. A distraction. Anything.
He started moving in wide, slow circles across the grass, eyes scanning every inch. Then — RED.
A flash in the corner of his vision, like a candle flickering in a dark room.
On the ground. Blood. Dried, but still clearly visible against the grass.
Jack's heart punched harder against his ribs. He walked over, crouching low.
"Please not Luke... Please not Luke..."
The blood formed a thick lump in one spot — and then a faint trail, drops leading away.
"Stopped here..." he muttered under his breath. "Kinda close to where the kids were."
He thought harder.
"If it was a person bleeding that much... Kids would've screamed. Ran. At least kept their distance."
Jack squinted closer at the scene, piecing it together.
"Not enough blood for a big injury. Not human, then. A bird? No... too much for a bird. Has to be... a dog. Or a cat."
He stood, spinning slowly, surveying the surrounding yards.
"But where's the body?"
Then it clicked.
"The kids took it. That was the distraction."
Eyes wide, Jack moved back to the main spot — where the water guns had been abandoned earlier that afternoon.
He shut his eyes.
Imagined the scene: Kids laughing, spraying each other — then the sharp whimper of a wounded dog breaking through the noise.
Heads snapping around. Water guns dropped. Small legs running toward the sound without a second thought.
"They rushed in. They all rushed in."
Except Luke.
Jack's gut twisted.
"Luke didn't. He had other plans."
While the others crowded around the injured animal — Luke slipped away. Small feet. Small shadows.
Heading toward the trees.
Toward the woods.
Jack opened his eyes, following the direction Luke would have gone. Not toward the houses. Away from the crowd.
He walked.
Past the edge of the yard. Past the fences with crooked gaps wide enough for a small boy to squeeze through. Into the start of the wooded trails.
His boots crunched against dry leaves.
Jack tightened his jaw.
"Where would you go, Luke? Where are you?"
So he went deeper — just like he imagined Luke had.
As he walked deeper, the sounds grew louder. Wind. Birds. Trees. Leaves. Every step took him farther away from home.
Maybe Luke had gotten scared after a while, walking in circles around the forest — reached the park somehow — and gotten even more lost. That thought was the only thing keeping Jack pushing forward, even as the sun sank lower in the sky.
He wasn't fearless. But he knew one thing: He'd rather hang himself from one of these trees than turn back without a clue.
Something. Anything to present to his family. To Hank. To anyone.
He walked longer. The forest grew darker. Phone out. Flashlight on.
He stepped into the blackness, imagination running wild — visions of Luke walking just ahead of him, crying, calling for his big brother.
Jack clenched his jaw. Stomped harder into the dirt with every step.
Paranoia crept in, slow as a spring cold. You don't notice you have it — until it's too late.
After a while, he grew tired. Crouched down. Took a deep breath. Checked his phone.
No service. No surprise.
It would be catastrophic if he got lost too.
Then — a sound.
One at a time. Crunch. Crunch.
Footsteps. On dry leaves. Coming closer.
His mind screamed: "Luke?!"
Then instinct cut through the hope:
"No... listen, Jack. Prepare for the worst. Always."
Slow steps. Coming closer.
Would a six-year-old step that heavy? Slowly, when lost?
He tried reasoning — but it was just assumptions. No solid ground. No certainty. Too much time. Too much silence.
"I'll kill the light and hide."
He did. Snapped off the flashlight. Slid behind a thick tree, holding his breath.
The footsteps came closer. Closer. Closer — until they stopped.
Near.
Too near.
Jack thought:
"He knows I'm here. How can he even see in this darkness? Just moonlight? Is he used to it... a regular visitor to these woods? Right now — he sees me. Or hears me. Or senses me."
He prayed that the stranger hadn't seen the beam of his flashlight earlier.
Silence.
No breathing. No movement. Only Jack, inhaling and exhaling slow and deep, controlling it masterfully — yet no use.
CRACK!
One wide, brutal swing to the back of his head.
Jack's skull smashed against the tree.
In that last flicker of consciousness, he thought:
"He found me. He hit me. With what? I'm going down I can't move. I'm losing it."
Darkness swallowed him.
End of Prologue: Part I
Prologue: Part II
Jack opened his eyes slowly. Cold metal on his back sent shivers through him instantly. A bright white light beamed directly into his face, blinding him, making it even harder to open his eyes.
The back of his head throbbed like hell, but it didn't feel lethal — he was still alive.
After a few moments, his vision adapted to the light. He raised his head, looked around — and noticed a couple things immediately.
First — he was naked.
Second — he was tied to a metal table — the kind they use for surgeries — but way too small for a human. His legs stuck off the end awkwardly — like it was meant for dogs, or cats, not people.
Surgical tools gleamed on a smaller tray next to him. Sterile surgical aprons hung on the walls.
Jack put his head down slowly.
It was enough. He didn't need to be a genius to understand what was happening — or what was about to happen.
He thought, coldly: Is there a way out? Forget everything else. Don't waste time on details. Focus, Jack. Fast.
Three straps held him down — one across his chest, one across his stomach, and another across his legs.
He checked himself: Any other injuries? Am I missing something? Arms, legs...?
No. He could still feel everything.
They haven't cut anything off yet.
Jack flexed his hands experimentally.
Tight. Too tight. No gap at all.
Panic scratched at the back of his skull. But he crushed it down.
Okay. No easy way out. Now what? Prepare to die? Or think harder?
If he wasted his time trying imaginary escapes, he'd die crying in shock — and what would that matter after he was dead?
The straps weren't budging. The metal table was bolted to the ground — no way to rock it or tip it. The surgical tools were inches away — but might as well have been miles.
No one's coming to save you, Jack. You're deep in nowhere. Only you.
Jack thought, sharp and desperate:
Is there anything I can sacrifice? A hand? A shoulder?
Then it came to him — a stupid idea. But better to die trying.
He moved his right hand first, twisting against the strap. He gritted his teeth, shoving it inch by painful inch across his stomach.
It got tighter — crushed his ribs painfully — but gave him a few centimeters of play.
He did the same with his left hand — forcing it around, pushing, struggling. He hoped the movement had loosened the straps enough — but no gap.
Still too tight.
Back to the stupid plan.
Jack focused on his left wrist. Pressed it down. Pushed harder. Forced it against the edge of the strap.
The pressure bit into his skin, slicing a thin line of blood. He ignored it.
Halfway there — but even with that, he still couldn't reach the strap buckle.
Push harder. Risk it.
He jammed his right hand under his left wrist — pushing, straining, until he felt the sickening pop.
His shoulder dislocated.
Pain exploded down his side — hot and electric — but it bought him just enough slack.
Jack twisted to his side, gasping.
The dislocated shoulder burned like fire, but he forced his right hand up — and snapped open the strap buckle.
One strap free.
Then another.
Then another.
In agony, bleeding and barely able to move one arm —
Jack was free.
Stood up, shoulder still burning like hell, the pain shooting into his brain with every second, getting even worse.
Jack swallowed it down. He had popped his shoulder out to escape — but he wasn't some trained assassin who could just pop it back either. It would hurt like hell to try — maybe tear something even worse — so he let the left arm dangle uselessly at his side.
He glanced at the tray:
Scalpel. Small bone saw. Leather straps. A rag. Surgical scissors. A small drill.
Visions flooded his brain — terrible images of what would've happened if he'd stayed tied to that table.
"Luke." The name struck like lightning. "Please God, no... not here."
He grabbed the scalpel in his good hand and staggered toward the door.
As he moved — the door swung open.
Two men stepped in, mid-conversation, cracking jokes.
All three froze.
Instinct took over.
Jack bolted at them — left arm swinging uselessly, right hand gripping the scalpel, completely naked.
The man in front — masked, fat, slow — tried to slam the door shut.
Too late.
Jack rammed his leg into the gap. Pain exploded in his shin as the heavy door crushed it — but he barely felt it. He had already sacrificed a shoulder — what was a leg compared to survival?
He focused.
The world turned blue.
Frozen terror in the fat man's eyes. Shock on the face of the taller one behind him — long arms, longer reach.
Jack made peace in a single thought:
"Me or them. Their lives mean nothing next to mine. If they cut people for money — for pleasure — it doesn't matter. They're still monsters. And if Luke is here somewhere... They. Must. Die."
The blue faded to red.
One clean thrust — straight into the fat man's throat.
Nothing at first. No blood. Then — a slow bloom.
"There you are, Red."
Jack shoved the door wider, kicked the fat man in the gut with his left leg — pain slicing through him — but he stayed standing.
The fat man collapsed onto the taller one.
Jack lunged.
The taller man raised a hand in defense — Too slow.
One slash — four fingers severed at the knuckles.
Still no blood. Jack smirked grimly.
"Red takes a second to arrive... or maybe I'm just too fast."
The fat man grabbed Jack's leg, trying to drag him down. Jack stabbed him in the eye — fast, savage. Then slashed clean across his throat — aorta hit.
Blood sprayed like a fountain against the filthy green and white walls.
The fat man's eyes rolled back, his limbs twitching.
The tall man, half-blinded with pain, screamed:
"Motherfucker! AHHH! You're fucking dead! I'll fuck your moth—"
He never finished.
Jack drove the scalpel up through the roof of his mouth — felt the soft tissue give — then twisted — slashing forward until the blade snapped against his front teeth.
Broken steel in Jack's hand.
The man gurgled, frozen by the sudden agony.
Jack didn't hesitate.
With the broken half of the scalpel, he stabbed again — the man's throat, chest, stomach — over and over.
Jack watched his eyes — waited for the light to die.
When it finally did, he let go.
Jack stood, panting. Blood dripping from his hand. He dropped the broken scalpel onto the floor with a hollow clang.
"No time to cry about it. I can be traumatized later. Keep it together now. Don't think about it."
Jack walked down the hallway, moving stiffly, shoulder still burning like hell. Every second it got worse.
He came to a split:
Right — the back exit and a heavy metal door (storage room? freezer?).
Left — two kennel rooms, an admin office, and far down, the front entrance.
Jack limped right, breathing heavy, mind racing.
Yeah. Abandoned veterinary clinic. Perfect hellhole.
Earlier, he had stripped the pants off the dead tall man — slipped them on, bloody but better than nothing. He also tore the man's shirt into strips, tying them tight around his dislocated shoulder — a makeshift sling. Not perfect. Hurt like hell. But it kept his left arm immobile, gave him one working hand.
(No idea how he even stayed standing.)
His eyes scanned for weapons — none. Only the bloody scalpel. Not enough.
He stumbled back to the surgery room. Snatched up the scissors — sharp, brutal, simple. The drill was tempting, but loud. Too risky.
Jack pressed forward, reaching the metal door.
Opened it — freezing cold air blasted him in the face.
Inside — a horror museum.
Bodies dangling from rusty meat hooks overhead. Women. Men. Kids.
All swinging gently like slaughtered pigs.
Jack gasped — clamped his hand over his mouth. Almost vomited right there.
Deep breath. Swallow. Deep breath. Swallow.
"What is this feeling...? Not fear. Not anger."
He straightened his spine, blinking through the tears burning his eyes.
"Disgust."
Disgust at being the same species as the monsters who had done this. Disgust at the mockery of humanity this place represented.
He thought of his mother — the way she smiled at church, eyes closed, hands folded. Jack never believed much. But standing here, he felt the absence of God clearer than ever.
He backed out of the freezer — shut the door behind him.
Focused.
Next target: the admin office.
He crept up to the blurry window. Saw a slouched silhouette inside.
"Fuck it."
Jack pushed the door open slow.
Inside — a man with a black beanie, nasty beard, arms crossed, asleep.
"Disgust."
A pistol sat on the desk, just out of reach.
A battered couch on the opposite side — maybe someone else lying there. Risky.
Jack knew he had to be quiet.
No hesitation.
He crept up. One clean stab to the side of the man's neck — severing the artery. The man woke gasping, but Jack clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling it.
The man bled out fast. Dropped like a puppet cut from its strings.
Jack stabbed the scissors deep into the shoulder to anchor him — snatched the pistol.
Quickly checked the magazine — full.
Gun ready.
He turned toward the couch — Another man. Wide awake. Scrolling on his phone. Oblivious.
Bang. One bullet through the skull.
Jack exhaled — heart slamming.
No turning back.
He heard a commotion at the front.
A man barged in through the front door — eyes wide, pulling something from under his jacket —
Bang.
Jack shot first — but it wasn't perfect.
The bullet slammed into the man's arm, sending him screaming and stumbling back outside.
Jack took a step to follow — ready to finish the job —
but then —
"Jack?"
A small voice, trembling, behind him.
He froze.
Turned.
It was Luke.
Wide-eyed. Tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Luke! Are you okay? Hurt bad?"
Luke sobbed.
"My leg hurts. I fell down... runnin'..."
Jack glanced at the front door — could still run after the shooter — but family first.
Always.
He bolted back to the kennel.
The door was locked — Jack sprinted to the dead guy's desk, found the keys, fumbled them into the lock.
The door clicked open.
He scooped Luke into a hug, squeezing him tightly.
Luke whimpered against his chest.
Jack knelt down, forehead against Luke's.
"We're going home, buddy. Okay? But you gotta promise — close your eyes. I'm gonna fly us home, but if you peek... we'll fall from the sky."
Luke sniffled and nodded, closing his eyes.
But then —
Luke pointed inside the kennel.
"Jack... their brothers gonna fly home too?"
Two more kids.
Girls.
Maybe eight or nine.
Both crying silently — one with a black eye, the other covered in cuts.
Jack felt rage coil through his gut.
He opened his arms.
"You wanna fly home too?"
The girls nodded in terror and hope.
Jack slung Luke onto his back, held a girl with each arm — one bruised, one bleeding — one clutched against his busted shoulder, one against the good side.
Gun tucked into the back waistband of the bloody stolen pants.
Deep breath.
Run.
He lunged for the back exit — shoved through the door — and disappeared into the dark Texas night.
Jack's footsteps hammered through the dark forest. Only a weak strip of moonlight slipped between the trees, barely enough to see.
He was running at full speed, weaving through the chaos like he was sprinting in broad daylight. Flashlights bobbed somewhere near him. More footsteps. They were chasing.
The kids clung tighter around his neck and shoulders — silent, terrified. "A little more. Just a little more." If he could reach the house, he could hide them, grab Dad's rifle, set up cover, catch these bastards off guard.
Problem was — Jack had no idea where he was anymore. He was only praying that running straight would eventually lead him home.
The footsteps behind him pounded louder. His right leg screamed in agony — barely holding together. His left shoulder burned like hellfire.
Pain he couldn't measure anymore. Just another thing to ignore.
Bang! A bullet cracked through a tree next to him, bark exploding into his hair.
More shots. More misses.
"Faster. Go faster."
But this was it. His absolute limit. Three kids clinging to him, battered body breaking apart — this was all he had.
"I need an edge. I need a path they can't follow."
His eyes caught the edge of a cliff — a small drop-off swallowed in shadow.
He focused, teeth grinding.
"How deep? Can I break the fall without killing the kids?"
As he calculated, flashlights flickered ahead of him. A crowd of silhouettes stood still in the distance — a search party? Had it already been three hours?
Jack's heart leapt. He screamed:
"Help! It's Jack!"
No answer. The figures didn't move. They just stood there.
Jack felt the hairs on his neck rise.
No choice. No time. He kept running toward them.
Crack!
The air whistled past his cheek, parting in a sharp breeze — then the delayed thunder of a rifle shot.
The bullet grazed his left cheek, slicing it open.
Instinct screamed.
Forward meant death. Backward meant death. Left was a death trap — crossfire.
Only one way.
Right.
Jack yanked hard to the right and shouted:
"Hang on tight, kids!"
He launched himself off the dark cliff.
No second thoughts.
Eyes scanned frantically for anything — a branch, a tree — anything to slow the fall. Nothing but blackness.
Then — rocks. Sharp, jagged rocks scraping his feet bloody as he slid.
The pressure in his legs was insane — bone-shaking, flesh-ripping agony.
But he clenched his jaw and pushed through it — forced himself through the dark ocean.
His left foot slammed into a solid, immovable stone.
His whole body flipped — spinning through the air.
"Brace, kids! Hold on to me!" Jack barked.
He crushed the girls tighter against his chest, squeezed Luke's arms against his jaw.
In that frozen second, upside down, Jack saw the moon perfectly clear above him.
Full moon. Beautiful. Better than dying strapped to a filthy green and white wall.
He saw where he was heading:
Not the ground.
A lake.
One chance. One desperate move.
His body was spiraling too far right — would hit the rocky shore instead of the water.
But there — a tall tree rushed past on his left.
Jack twisted. Forced his foot to kick off the trunk — even with everything screaming inside him.
One hard shove. Changed the spin just enough.
The trajectory bent left.
Last thing Jack saw — his reflection, broken and bloody, in the black surface of the lake below — before they hit.
His body felt like a ton as he went down. The water crushed him, pulling him under, dragging him toward death. So he fought.
Pain worse than anything yet. Broken bones. Nasty cuts. Every part of him screaming.
He was almost certain nothing on his body would ever work again if he made it out. But he did.
Jack clawed his way to the rocky shore, dragging himself onto solid ground, coughing up water. He crawled farther, trembling, blinking up at the kids — They were crying, terrified.
No surprise. Jack was about to cry too.
He rasped out:
"Luke? You okay, buddy?"
Luke coughed, choking up the water from his throat — then started bawling like the girls beside him.
Jack didn't push. No more questions. Not for a six-year-old who'd just survived organ traffickers, gunfire, and a death drop into a dark lake.
Jack took a deep breath. Planted his right foot forward. And somehow — stood.
Agony everywhere. But standing meant living.
He staggered forward — into the thicker parts of the forest.
Glanced back once — Up at the cliff they'd fallen from.
Flashlights flickered at the top. Dark silhouettes watching.
Jack thought grimly:
"I won this fight. For today, at least."
He turned and kept moving.
A few brutal minutes later — dragging himself through brambles and blackness — Jack stumbled out onto asphalt.
A narrow, cracked park road. Not a highway. But something.
Civilization.
His legs finally gave out.
He collapsed onto his knees, skin scraping open on the broken asphalt. But he didn't even feel it anymore. Pain was just... background noise now.
In the distance — he saw it.
City lights.
A blurry wall of golden glow beyond the trees.
Almost there.
A couple more miles. A couple more steps.
Adrenaline faded. Fatigue swallowed him whole. Pain sharpened... then dulled... then nothing. His body went completely numb.
Movement at the corner of his vision.
Red and blue lights.
A patrol car rolling closer.
Jack exhaled — relief hitting him like a final bullet.
Then darkness.
His body gave out. He pitched forward — forehead slamming against the asphalt with a dull crack.
The kids screamed — crying, pulling at his arms, his legs, trying to wake him up.
The police cruiser screeched to a halt. A door swung open. Boots crunched against the road.
The officer froze when he got closer.
In front of him: Three kids — six to eight years old — huddled in terror.
And another kid — older, but still a kid.
Bare-chested. Bruised all over. Blood running down his face, his arms, his shredded legs. A dirty rag tied around his shoulder like a half-dead tourniquet. Jeans ripped to hell.
The cop muttered under his breath:
"Jesus Christ..."
Is he even still alive?
End of Prologue: Part II