After listening to Cisco Ramon's explanation, Jack Kadere patted his shoulder. "You truly are a genius. Coming to you was the right choice. Thank you."
"It's nothing." Cisco waved off the praise, though his chest puffed slightly. "Honestly, if I'd had more time, I could've done even better. Added more features, maybe a—"
"Oh, right." Jack's tone shifted to something casual, almost offhand. "Where did you put the tracker?"
"On the metal ring."
The words left his mouth before his brain caught up. Cisco's face crumpled. He caught Harrison Wells' flat, disappointed stare from across the room and winced. "Can you... pretend you didn't hear that?"
"I'm afraid not."
Jack dismantled the black metal ring with unhurried fingers and handed it back to Cisco, who accepted it with both hands over his face.
"Goodbye, everyone."
He turned and walked out. No rush. No tension in his shoulders.
Cisco watched him go. "That's it? Should we call the police or something?"
"By the time they arrive, he'll be long gone." Wells shook his head. "As long as Caitlin's safe, that's what matters. Let's get back to the lab."
---
Back at S.T.A.R. Labs, Wells spoke briefly with Caitlin, confirming she hadn't been harmed. A few reassuring words, and then he left her to decompress.
Meanwhile, Jack stood at the entrance of the hotel he'd arranged with Helena, hands in his pockets. The evening air carried exhaust and distant traffic. A few minutes passed before the growl of an engine grew close. Helena's car swung into the lot, and she stepped out, heels clicking against asphalt as she approached.
"You really waited for me here."
"Why not?" Jack smiled.
"Let's go." She linked her arm through his and walked inside.
The lobby smelled of carpet cleaner and lilies. Jack paid, took the room card, and they stepped into the elevator. The doors hadn't fully closed before Helena hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him—aggressive, open-mouthed, tasting faintly of wine.
The elevator climbed. Her fingers dug into his collar. His hand found the small of her back, pressing her closer. When the doors opened, they stumbled down the hallway, mouths still locked, until Jack swiped the card and pushed the door open.
He kicked it shut behind them.
Helena stepped back, breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, eyes bright with something between excitement and challenge.
"Are you sure?" Her voice dropped. "If my father finds out, you're dead."
"Take it off."
Helena's smile sharpened. She reached behind her back, found the zipper, and pulled. The dress slithered down her body and pooled at her feet—black fabric against pale carpet. Underneath: matching black lace, simple, expensive. Her body was lean, athletic, with the kind of muscle definition that came from actual training rather than gym vanity. A faint scar curved along her left hip.
She stepped out of the dress and crossed the distance between them.
Her mouth found his again. Jack's hands moved—unclasping, pulling, discarding. Helena's nails raked down his chest as his shirt came off. She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then licked it away.
They hit the bed.
Helena arched beneath him as he pinned her wrists above her head. "Harder," she breathed.
He obliged.
This is what I needed.
The hotel was upscale enough that the bed didn't creak, but Helena more than made up for it. Her cries were loud, unrestrained—desperate, animal sounds that echoed off the walls. She didn't care who heard. She wanted them to hear. When Jack's grip tightened on her hips hard enough to bruise, she gasped and pushed back into it.
Blood smeared across the sheets—his lip, her nails raking his shoulders, a bitten mark on her collarbone that welled red. Helena's eyes stayed open, watching him, drinking in the pain she inflicted and received with equal hunger. There was something broken in the way she moved, something that craved damage.
Jack gave her what she wanted.
She came with a scream that could've been rage or release or both, her whole body shuddering, fingers clawing the sheets. He followed moments later, and she laughed—breathless, wild, halfway unhinged.
They lay tangled in the aftermath. Helena's chest rose and fell. Sweat gleamed on her skin. The room smelled of sex and copper.
After a while, she stirred. Her voice came out soft, almost fond.
"It truly feels wonderful." She traced a scratch mark on his chest. "I'm a little reluctant for anything to happen to you. Please... don't let my father kill you."
Jack smiled brilliantly. "What you care about will torment you. Expectation is the root of all suffering. I'm happy to help you stop pain with pain."
Helena's smile faltered. Something flickered behind her eyes—a memory, maybe, or a thought she didn't want to examine. After a moment, she shook her head.
"First, you need to be alive."
She climbed off the bed and limped toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut.
---
Helena had assumed two hours would be more than enough. By the time they left the hotel, more than two hours had passed. The drive back to Starling City stretched into darkness, streetlights streaking past the windows.
She pulled the car to the curb and turned to him. "Tell me your phone number."
"If I want to, I'll find you." Jack shook his head.
"Why not?" Annoyance sharpened her voice.
He smiled, waved, and stepped out of the car.
"I'll find you!" she called after him.
But Jack had already disappeared into the night streets, swallowed by shadow and neon.
Helena snorted, started the engine, and drove home.
---
The Bertinelli estate loomed ahead, old money architecture draped in manicured darkness. Helena parked and walked inside.
Her father sat in the living room. The lamp beside him cast sharp shadows across his face, and his expression was stone.
Helena offered nothing. "Father."
She moved toward the stairs.
"Stop."
She stopped.
"You're not going to explain where you've been?"
"Nowhere that involved murder or arson."
Frank Bertinelli rose from his chair. He crossed the distance in three strides and struck her across the face.
Smack.
The sound rang through the room—crisp, final.
Helena's head turned with the blow. Her cheek burned. She tasted copper where her teeth had cut the inside of her lip.
Frank's voice was low, controlled, dangerous. "You need to remember that you are my daughter. No matter what I do, you are my daughter. That cannot be changed. You'd best understand this as soon as possible."
Helena looked at him. Her eyes held nothing—no fear, no defiance, no love. Just cold, patient hate.
She turned and walked upstairs without a word.
Frank watched her go, jaw tight. Then he turned to the butler standing in the doorway.
"Investigate. I want to know where she's been and who she's been with."
"Yes, sir." The butler bowed his head.
---
Frank Bertinelli wanted to know who his daughter had been with and what she'd done.
Similarly, Felicity wanted to know the same thing.
She'd come home from work to an empty apartment. Jack wasn't there. She'd waited, checking her phone, pacing, telling herself it was fine. When he finally walked through the door, she caught it immediately—perfume. Floral, expensive, and definitely not hers.
Felicity pushed her glasses up and fixed him with a serious look.
"Who is she?"