Jack woke to the sound of breathing that wasn't his own.
Shallow. Uneven. Too fast.
For a moment he didn't move. Pain sat in his body like an old companion—familiar, constant, dull enough that he could think around it. His infernal core pulsed weakly, wrapped in a soreness that felt disturbingly close to exhaustion.
He opened his eyes.
A ceiling. Cracked plaster. Flickering bulb.
Safehouse.
Jack pushed himself upright with a grunt. His shirt was gone, replaced with tight bandages wrapped around his torso and thigh. The wounds Crowe's men had inflicted were mostly closed—but not cleanly. Thin red scars spiderwebbed outward, still warm, still sensitive.
He touched one and hissed.
"Not fully healed," he muttered.
That was new.
Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly, testing his weight. The room swayed, then steadied. A folding table sat against the wall, cluttered with bottled water, burner phones, newspaper clippings, and a portable radio murmuring low static.
He was alone.
Good.
Jack moved to the cracked mirror mounted near the sink.
The man staring back at him looked… wrong.
Not weaker.
Hollow.
His eyes weren't glowing. They were just eyes—dark, tired, rimmed with red. For a split second, he almost didn't recognize himself without the hellfire framing his face.
He turned away.
The radio crackled.
"—confirmed multiple fatalities at the abandoned station—authorities refusing to comment on the nature of the incident—"
Jack shut it off.
The Collector's grin replayed in his mind.
Payment overdue.
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't agree to that," he whispered.
The infernal core stirred faintly, offering no answer.
A vibration buzzed against the table.
One of the burner phones lit up.
Jack stared at it for a long moment before answering.
"Yeah."
Mercer's voice came through, clipped and tense. "We have another incident."
Jack closed his eyes. "Location?"
"Residential. East Borough. Family home."
A pause.
"Possession type?"
"Yes."
Jack exhaled slowly. "On my way."
"Jack," Mercer said, and there was something different there now—hesitation. "Crowe is mobilizing. This one's… sensitive."
Jack didn't ask what that meant.
He hung up and grabbed his coat.
The house looked normal.
That was always the worst part.
Two stories. Small garden. Toys scattered across the lawn—plastic dinosaurs, a red ball, a bike tipped on its side. Police tape fluttered uselessly at the edges of the property, already pushed aside by onlookers murmuring in the street.
Jack stood across the road, hands in his pockets, watching.
No screaming.
No smoke.
Just silence.
His infernal core reacted immediately.
Something was wrong.
Too contained.
He crossed the tape and stepped inside.
The smell hit him first.
Copper. Sweat. Fear.
The living room was wrecked—furniture overturned, a television shattered against the wall. A woman lay slumped against the couch, eyes open, throat torn.
Jack swallowed.
"Too late," he murmured.
He followed the pull deeper into the house, up the stairs. Each step creaked loudly in the silence, as if the building itself was holding its breath.
At the top of the stairs, a door stood half-open.
A child's room.
Jack stopped.
His hand hovered near the frame.
He'd done this dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe.
But something in his chest twisted anyway.
He pushed the door open.
The boy stood in the middle of the room.
Eight years old. Maybe nine.
Barefoot. Pajamas stained dark. His hands trembled at his sides.
And his eyes—
Black.
Not fully consumed. Not yet.
Jack felt it immediately: the demon was anchored, tangled deep, fused around the boy's fear like a parasite that had found a perfect host.
The boy looked up at him.
"Are you here to kill me?" he asked quietly.
Jack's heart cracked.
"No," he said instantly. "I'm here to help."
The boy swallowed. "It hurts."
Jack stepped closer, slow, careful. "I know."
The demon shifted.
Jack's vision blurred as hellfire tried to rise—and faltered.
Too weak.
Too risky.
The demon laughed softly through the boy's mouth.
He's fragile, it whispered. You'll break him.
Jack knelt, bringing himself to eye level. "What's your name?"
"Elliot."
"Okay, Elliot," Jack said gently. "I need you to listen to me. There's something inside you that doesn't belong there. I can take it out."
The boy's hands clenched. "Will it kill me?"
Jack hesitated.
Too long.
The demon felt it.
It surged.
Elliot screamed.
Jack lunged forward, grabbing the boy as shadows exploded outward, slamming him into the wall. Pain flared across Jack's back as his shoulder cracked.
He roared, forcing himself upright.
"Elliot!" he shouted. "Look at me!"
The boy's body convulsed. Blood trickled from his nose.
"I can't—" Elliot sobbed. "I can't make it stop!"
Jack's infernal core screamed.
This wasn't a clean extraction.
The demon wasn't feeding.
It was becoming.
Jack had seconds.
His hands ignited—just a flicker of hellfire, tightly controlled.
The demon hissed.
Do it, it taunted. Burn us both.
Jack's mind raced.
If he burned the demon fully, the boy would die.
If he hesitated, the possession would complete.
There was no third option.
"No," Jack whispered.
The words tasted like ash.
"I won't."
He reached into the infernal core—not for fire, but for pain. For memory. For the weight of every choice he'd ever regretted.
The storm answered weakly, unstable.
Jack slammed his palm against the boy's chest and pulled.
Not the demon.
The fear.
He tore it out of Elliot like a living thing—screams, memories, terror flooding through him. Jack screamed too as the weight crushed him, threatened to drag him under.
The demon shrieked in fury as its anchor vanished.
For a moment—just a moment—it worked.
The shadow ripped free.
Jack burned it instantly.
Silence fell.
Elliot collapsed.
Jack caught him.
The boy's chest rose.
Once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
Jack shook him.
"No," he said hoarsely. "No, no—"
Nothing.
Jack pressed his forehead to the boy's, hands shaking.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Jack turned as armed units flooded the hallway—Crowe's men, weapons raised.
Crowe stepped through last.
He took in the scene.
The boy.
The corpse of the demon.
Jack kneeling in blood.
For once, Crowe didn't speak immediately.
Finally, he said, quietly, "You hesitated."
Jack looked up at him, eyes wet, blazing faintly.
"I tried to save him."
Crowe nodded once. "And that's why he's dead."
Jack surged to his feet, rage flaring. "You think killing him outright would've been better?"
Crowe didn't flinch. "I think certainty saves lives."
They stared at each other, the air thick with everything unsaid.
Crowe lowered his weapon.
"This is why I hunt you," he said. "Not because you're evil. Because you're human."
Jack laughed bitterly. "Congratulations."
Crowe turned away. "Clean it up."
The team moved in.
Jack stepped back, feeling the weight settle deeper into his soul.
Outside, sirens wailed.
Another house. Another family. Another failure.
Jack disappeared into the night.
And far below, in a place of fire and contracts, something smiled patiently.