The room was silent—thick with the kind of tension that made the air heavy, suffocating. The moment the knife at his sister's throat drew blood, something inside Jack snapped.
A slow breath left his lips. He rolled his shoulders, the usual carefree light in his eyes dimming, replaced with something much darker.
"Close your eyes, kid," he murmured.
His sister, trembling, obeyed immediately.
Ify stood behind him, shadows curling at her feet, her eyes pitch black with blood-red pupils. But before she could make a move, Jack raised a hand.
"Stand down," he said, voice eerily calm. "This is my mess. I'll clean it up."
Ify hesitated, studying him, then backed off.
Jack exhaled. His fingers twitched.
The gamble begins.
---
The gang that held his sister was no ordinary bunch of street thugs. They were essence-wielders—brutal enforcers with abilities that made them kings in Dravenholm's underworld.
The leader, a scar-faced brute, had the ability to reinforce his body with essence, turning his muscles into something akin to iron. His men were just as dangerous—one could extend and sharpen his bones into weapons, another could phase through solid objects, and the last one had a twisted ability to rot anything he touched.
It didn't matter.
Jack smirked.
Then, he moved.
Faster than they expected, he kicked up a chair, sending it flying into the bone-wielder's face. Before the man could react, Jack was already on him, grabbing a fork off the nearby table and jamming it straight into his thigh.
The man screamed.
Jack twisted the fork. Hard.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" Jack hissed, leaning in close. "That's what you get for pointing a knife at my sister."
The phaser lunged at him next, arms passing through furniture like a ghost. Jack, expecting it, grabbed a handful of salt from the nearby table and threw it into the guy's eyes.
The man howled, stumbling backward as his concentration broke.
Jack seized the moment. He whipped off his belt, looped it around the guy's throat, and yanked.
A brutal twist of his wrist, and the man collapsed—choking, struggling, panicking.
The leader, Scar-Face, roared, his iron-coated fist swinging toward Jack's skull.
Jack ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow. His eyes darted around—looking for something, anything. His hand landed on a pencil.
Good enough.
Scar-Face came in for another punch, but Jack sidestepped and jammed the pencil into the soft spot beneath the man's jaw.
A wet crunch followed.
Scar-Face staggered back, gargling on his own blood.
Jack didn't stop.
He grabbed a bottle off the table, shattered it against the wall, and drove the jagged edge into the leader's side.
Scar-Face gasped.
Jack twisted the glass.
Then ripped it out.
The last man standing—the one with the rotting touch—took a step back, horror in his eyes.
Jack, panting, grinned at him. It wasn't friendly.
The rotting man lunged, aiming for Jack's arm.
Jack, in a single motion, grabbed a wooden chair and slammed it down on the man's hand, crushing it against the floor.
The man shrieked. His ability didn't work if he couldn't touch his target directly.
Jack took his time. He crouched down, picking up the knife that had been pressed to his sister's throat moments ago.
He twirled it.
Then he drove it straight through the man's hand, pinning it to the floor.
The man screamed, writhing.
Jack leaned in, his voice cold, merciless. "If you ever even think about touching her again, I'll make sure you lose something you can't grow back."
Silence.
The only sound in the room was the gurgling of Scar-Face and the ragged breaths of the others.
Jack stood up, rolling his shoulders. His hands were covered in blood, but his expression was calm—too calm.
He turned to Ify, who was watching him with something between admiration and alarm.
Jack smirked, flicking blood off his hands.
The room reeked of blood and sweat, the bodies of the defeated scattered around him. Jack stood there for a moment, rolling his aching shoulders, his knuckles raw and stained with crimson. The weight of the fight settled in—not in guilt, not in regret, but in exhaustion.
With a sigh, he stepped over the bodies, found a rickety wooden chair, and dropped into it like he'd just finished a long day at work.
His hands—coated in blood, trembling slightly from adrenaline—reached into his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and struck a lighter. The flame flickered for a second before the tip burned bright.
Jack took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling, watching the wisps curl toward the ceiling.
The silence stretched, heavy and thick. Ify just stared at him, expression unreadable.
Then, after a few more puffs, Jack tilted his head, lips curling into a familiar smirk.
"Alright," he muttered, voice low and lazy. "Who's hungry?"
Jack's sister smiled softly, her delicate fingers still gripping the edges of the blanket draped over her frail form. She didn't open her eyes but let out a gentle giggle, a sound so pure it seemed untouched by the violence that had just unfolded.
"I'll cook," she murmured, voice as light as a feather. "But you should clean up first, big brother."
Before Ify could question what she meant, a soft ripple distorted the air around them. With a simple snap of her fingers, the bodies of the gang members vanished—gone as if they had never existed. The blood that had splattered across the floors, the overturned furniture, the broken glass—all of it reversed, rewinding in time until the house stood pristine and untouched.
Jack didn't flinch. He simply took another drag from his cigarette, blowing out a steady stream of smoke, completely unfazed.
But Ify? Her eyes widened.
That wasn't normal.
That wasn't just some minor trick.
That was spatial manipulation—one of the rarest and most powerful essence abilities in existence.
Jack's sister finally opened her eyes, revealing a soft, glowing silver hue, almost celestial in its depth. She gave a small, tired smile as she slowly moved toward the kitchen, her steps light and graceful despite her weakened body.
Ify, still staring, finally found her voice. "She has spatial abilities…"
Jack exhaled another puff of smoke before giving her a knowing look. "Yeah. And she just did it in front of you."
Ify turned to him, confused.
Jack leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded as his smirk returned. "That means she trusts you."
Jack's sister set the plates down with careful hands, her soft silver eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
The warm, rich aroma of home-cooked food filled the tiny apartment, replacing the previous scent of blood and cigarette smoke. Ify watched as Jack's sister, still humming softly, placed down the last dish with a satisfied nod. The table was filled with simple but hearty meals—steaming bowls of rice, a savory meat stew, and freshly baked bread.
Jack clapped his hands together dramatically. "Alright, ladies, let's get one thing straight—I fought, I bled, and I suffered. So if there's any extra portion, it's coming to me."
Ify snorted. "I think you suffered the least here."
His sister giggled as she took her seat. "Ify's right. If anyone deserves extra, it's me for cleaning up your mess."
Jack gasped in mock betrayal. "Excuse me? I saved you."
His sister rolled her eyes. "And you caused the situation in the first place."
Ify smirked. "Yeah, from what I saw, you had a whole blade collection pointed at your throat."
Jack jabbed his spoon in Ify's direction. "Listen, you ungrateful heathens, I—"
His sister shoved a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
Jack immediately choked, eyes going wide as he tried to chew and breathe at the same time.
"Eat first, complain later," she said sweetly.
Ify chuckled as Jack barely managed to recover, glaring at both of them like a betrayed war hero.
"You two are evil," he muttered.
His sister smirked. "And you talk too much."
Jack sighed, grumbling under his breath as he finally focused on eating. The tension from earlier seemed to melt away, replaced by the comforting sounds of clinking spoons, quiet chewing, and the occasional contented sigh.
Ify found herself relaxing more than she expected. The food was simple but delicious—warm, rich, and comforting in a way that made her feel like she was sitting at a family table, even though she hadn't had one in years.
Jack, ever the human vacuum cleaner, had already finished half his plate when his sister turned to Ify.
"So," she started, resting her chin on her hand, eyes twinkling with curiosity, "what's your deal?"
Ify raised a brow. "My deal?"
Jack's sister nodded. "Yeah. You don't look like the type to just… casually hang around criminals like Jack."
Jack sputtered. "First of all—rude."
Ify smirked. "I have a talent for attracting trouble."
Jack gestured wildly at himself. "Case in point!"
His sister giggled. "I figured. But, honestly, you give off more of a 'mysterious lone wolf' vibe."
Ify snorted. "That's a fancy way of saying I don't talk much."
Jack pointed at her. "Exactly. She's the 'I work alone' type. Probably has a tragic backstory too."
Ify gave him a deadpan look. "You want me to punch you, don't you?"
Jack grinned. "See? That's exactly what a tragic backstory person would say."
His sister covered her mouth, laughing, while Ify sighed dramatically and shook her head.
"You're lucky the food is good," she muttered.
Jack winked. "I'm lucky for many things."
Before Ify could throw a spoon at him, her phone suddenly buzzed. The teasing atmosphere snapped like a rubber band as she checked the caller ID.
Her eyes narrowed. Malik.
Jack raised an eyebrow at her sudden shift. "Who's that? Another angry guy trying to kill you?"
Ify ignored him and swiped to answer. "What is it?"
Malik's voice came through, calm but carrying a weight that made Ify sit up straighter.
"Bara woke up."
The room fell silent.