The hallway lights flickered as Jack stumbled toward his dorm.
His feet dragged, shoes half untied, laces whispering across marble tiles. Behind him, far off in the distance, voices buzzed—excited, confused, frantic. Flashlights darted like fireflies beyond the hallway windows. Someone shouted something about the main building. Others asked if it was a villain attack. Alarms hadn’t gone off, though. No red lights. Just panic—uninformed panic.
He kept walking.
His fingers trembled as they pressed the code to unlock his door. Missed it once. Twice. The keypad beeped in protest, but on the third try, it clicked.
The door opened.
He shut it behind him with his back, leaned against it. Slid down.
Silence.
Just his own shaky breath, trapped in his chest like a scream that couldn’t find its voice.
The room was clean, almost untouched. He hadn’t spent much time in it these past few days—most nights were in the library, under dim lights and between pages stained with blood and obsession. But now, he sat there, on polished tiles, gripping the sides of his head.
The image wouldn’t leave his mind.
That wall—ripped apart. Not cracked. Not fractured.
Ripped.
Gone.
Atomized.
It hadn’t been there when he looked up. Just floating debris. Loose stone hanging midair like ash in windless flame.
His nose twitched. He could still feel the iron sting of blood crusted beneath it.
He looked at his hands.
They didn’t glow. They didn’t shake. They didn’t seem like hands that could rip buildings in half.
But he knew what they did.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”
He crawled across the floor and reached for the desk. His fingers found the edge and dragged a drawer open—violently. Books tumbled out, pages flapping. Notes, diagrams, names of known villains—Sable Fang, Crynaut, The Bone Howl—lined in red ink. Theories on madness. The psychology of detachment. Quotes highlighted with desperate strokes.
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He’d memorized too much. Knew exactly how the spiral began.
He just hadn’t expected to see it in himself.
He wasn’t just studying villains now.
He was terrified he was one.
He pushed the books away, stood abruptly, nearly tipping the chair. His knees wobbled. The world tilted slightly. He stumbled into the bathroom.
Flipped the light.
He stared at the mirror.
His hair was a mess. Eyes wide, bloodshot. Dried red stains curled beneath his nostrils and just under one ear. Like someone had scratched at him from the inside.
“What the hell is going on?” he muttered, voice low.
The silence had no answer. Only the low hum of the light above.
He turned the tap on and splashed cold water on his face. Again. Again. But it didn’t cool him down. His skin was hot—feverish. Heart pounding.
He looked up again.
For a moment, in the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something in the mirror that wasn’t him.
A shimmer of black. A flicker of red. Gone before he could blink.
He stepped back.
“No. No—no—no,” he said, hands rising, curling into fists.
He turned the light off and staggered out of the bathroom. He paced. Couldn't sit. Couldn't breathe fully.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Didn’t even lie down.
He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes open, staring at the door.
Waiting for something.
A knock. A scream. Someone to barge in, accuse him, arrest him, drag him into the principal’s office and show him the footage.
But nothing came.
Because no one knew.
No one even suspected.
And that somehow made it worse.
Next morning came.
He went to class.
Late.
No sleep.
Didn’t speak to Ethan. Didn’t look Lily in the eye. Or anyone in particular.
The words from the teacher seemed foreign to him, the sounds around echoing, vision blurry.
Sleep deprivation was definitely kicking in.
He got up halfway through the lecture and left.
Didn’t go to the next one.
He just walked.
Walked aimlessly.
The dorm was no go, he was afraid of the nightmares he's been having. Afraid the feeling would appear again. Afraid he would let go.
Eventually ended up back in the library.
Not by habit.
By need.
The only place he still felt something.
Not even pretending to study for school anymore. No field tactics. No rescue drills. Just villain case files.
He pulled three more books from the high shelf. Villains of the Last Decade. Forbidden Case Files. Emergent Threat: Untouchables.
The librarian didn’t stop him. She was used to him now.
He sat in the far corner, far from the light.
Far from everyone.
Far from the Jack Taylor he tought he new.
And one thing was certain, Jack didn’t feel like a hero.
Quite the opposite.
