"Must be painful, right?"
Harrison Wells's expression was stone. Barry, Caitlin, and the others stood tense behind him. And Jack Kadere—standing loose, hands in his pockets—just chuckled and said something that didn't seem to connect to anything.
Painful? Barry and the others traded confused glances. But something shifted behind Wells's eyes. A flicker of recognition he couldn't quite suppress.
"Trapped in a world that isn't yours," Jack continued, his voice dropping into something almost conversational. "Wanting to go home and not being able to. Forced to build up the very person you despise—nurse him along, protect him—because if Barry Allen dies or loses his speed, your ticket home dies with him. Nobody in this room cares more about Barry's safety than you do. Not out of love. Out of necessity. Because without him, you're stuck here forever, surrounded by people who've been dead to you for fifteen years."
Jack sighed. Wells said nothing.
They had that much in common, at least. Neither of them belonged to this world. Jack understood the particular weight of that alienation—the loneliness that crept in sideways, at odd hours, in rooms full of people who had no idea how far away you actually were. The difference was that the Reverse-Flash would have given anything to go back. Jack wouldn't. And for that reason alone, he had a grudging respect for Wells. Fifteen years of performing a dead man's life, all for the slim chance of getting home. That took something.
"How do you know any of this?" Wells's voice was low, controlled.
Jack glanced around the room and smiled. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that your trap isn't very good." He paused, rolling his shoulders like he was working out a mild stiffness. "Especially not for a speedster."
"A speedster has all the time in the world to study his surroundings. This containment grid, for instance." Jack gestured at the electronic fence ringing the center of the room. "Or—" He turned and looked directly up at the ceiling. "—the man crouching up there."
He flicked his wrist. A bolt of electricity cracked upward and struck the rafters.
BANG.
Oliver Queen dropped from the ceiling, rolling into a crouch on the floor, bow already in hand.
"Green Arrow. Oliver Queen." Jack looked down at him, still smiling. "Nice to finally meet you."
The trap had been obvious from the moment Caitlin called. She'd told Jack that Harrison Wells had confessed to being the Reverse-Flash—and Jack had known instantly that it was bait. Wells would never voluntarily reveal his identity while Barry was depowered. The timing was wrong, the logic was wrong, everything about it screamed setup. But Jack came anyway. Partly to see what they'd cooked up. Partly because walking into someone's trap and dismantling it in front of them was, frankly, one of his favorite things to do.
He'd scanned the room the moment he arrived. And while he was at it, he'd left a few surprises of his own.
Oliver rose to his full height, bowstring drawn, an arrow aimed squarely at Jack's chest. "You know who I am?"
"You're wearing a hood and a domino mask, not a paper bag. Who wouldn't recognize you?" Jack pointed lazily at the setup around the room. "This trap—your idea?"
"Yes," Oliver said.
"Good work." Jack chuckled. He didn't elaborate.
Oliver's jaw tightened. The lack of a follow-up was worse than an insult.
Jack turned away from him and strolled toward Harrison Wells, raising his voice. "Cisco—you're sure this fence of yours can hold me?"
Upstairs at the monitors, Cisco Ramon answered without hesitation. "Absolutely."
"Then let's test it."
Jack walked past Wells, stepped over the threshold of the containment grid, and stopped in the center. He turned around to face them, arms spread slightly, like a man settling into a chair.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
"Barry!" Wells wheeled backward fast, shouting.
Barry hit the switch.
The containment field snapped to life—a shimmering wall of energy crackling along the electronic fence, sealing Jack inside. The hum of it filled the room like a living thing, vibrating in their teeth.
Everyone exhaled at once.
Wells adjusted his glasses, composure sliding back into place, and smiled at Jack through the barrier. "Confidence and arrogance are separated by a very thin line. You just landed on the wrong side of it."
"Did I?"
Jack reached out and ran his fingertips along the barrier's surface. Sparks chased his touch, popping and hissing. He didn't flinch. "You finally caught me. Must feel good." His gaze drifted past Wells. "Caitlin. I thought we were friends."
Caitlin's face crumpled with guilt. "We are friends. But what you've been doing—it's wrong. I'm sorry. I had to."
"Difference of opinion." Jack shrugged, unbothered. "I get it." Then he turned his head toward Oliver Queen and let his smile widen by a fraction. "I hear you've got a very pretty sister."
Oliver's expression went flat and cold. "If I were you, I'd choose my words carefully right now. You're not in a position to make things worse for yourself, but you're trying."
"I've been carrying a gift around for a while," Jack said pleasantly. "Never could figure out the right person to give it to." He raised one finger. "One."
"What are you—"
"Two."
"Kadere—"
Panic rippled through the room. Barry's head snapped toward the monitors. "Cisco! Check everything—now!"
"Three."
Jack's voice echoed off the walls. Every muscle in the room coiled.
Nothing happened.
The silence stretched for three full seconds. Oliver exhaled hard through his nose. "He's bluffing."
Jack looked at him. The smile didn't change. His lips moved without sound.
Explode.
The blast hit Oliver from behind—his quiver detonated in a roar of heat and shrapnel, the concussive force slamming him face-first into the concrete. He hit the ground hard, a guttural grunt punched out of his lungs.
"Oliver—!" Barry broke into a sprint toward him.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Explosions ripped through the room in rapid succession—consoles, wall panels, equipment racks—fire blooming in orange bursts, smoke pouring upward in thick black columns. Then Wells's wheelchair blew apart. That one hit different—the blast shook the walls, rattled the overhead lights loose from their housing, sent a shudder through the entire floor of S.T.A.R. Labs like a small earthquake.
"No—no, no, no—"
Cisco's voice came from above, already moving. He bolted from the monitors and took the stairs three at a time.
When he reached the lower level, the room was unrecognizable. Smoke hung in dense layers, acrid and chemical, stinging his eyes. Debris littered every surface—shattered glass, scorched metal, chunks of drywall. Through the haze, Cisco found Harrison Wells first—sprawled on the floor where his wheelchair had been, dazed, blinking, alive. Cisco grabbed him under the arms and dragged him clear.
Barry had Oliver on his feet, one of the archer's arms slung over his shoulder. Oliver's face was streaked with soot and blood from a cut along his hairline, but he was standing. Caitlin stood a few paces back, hair disheveled, dust on her clothes, coughing into her sleeve—shaken but intact.
"Everyone's okay," Cisco breathed. "Everyone's—okay."
The relief lasted about two seconds before the wrongness of it caught up to him.
Nobody was dead. Nobody was even seriously hurt. Multiple explosions at close range—one of them directly on Oliver's back—and the worst injury was a scalp laceration. The odds of that happening by accident were essentially zero.
Cisco's head snapped up toward the containment grid.
The fence was intact. The barrier hummed steadily, undamaged, untouched by any of the blasts. He looked at the power feeds, the emitter housings—not a scratch.
He thought: That's not luck. He planted charges on everything in this room except the fence. He blew up Oliver's quiver, Wells's chair, half our equipment—and he left the one thing keeping him trapped completely alone. Why? What the hell is he doing?
Jack Kadere stood in the center of the containment field, smoke drifting around him, that same quiet smile resting at the corner of his mouth. He hadn't moved an inch.
Cisco stared at him through the flickering barrier, and Jack stared back.