Ify leaned back, trying to suppress the surge of unease twisting in her gut. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, her mind spinning with possibilities.
Jack studied her with amusement. "That got you thinking, huh?"
Ify snapped her gaze back to him, her crimson eyes narrowing. "You're telling me you stole something from the Fellowship that predates Solmiel's rule—something they've kept hidden for three thousand years—and you're just going to hand it over to some nameless employer?"
Jack shrugged. "A deal's a deal. I get paid, and they get their ancient whatever-the-hell-it-is." He reached for his drink again, only for Ify to snatch it before he could take a sip.
"If this thing is that old, that dangerous, you really think the Fellowship's just going to let it slide?" she pressed. "They'll tear this city apart looking for it—and you."
Jack exhaled sharply, resting his elbows on the table. "Yeah, well, they'll have to catch me first."
Ify clenched her jaw. "And what if they do?"
Jack smirked. "Then I gamble, like I always do."
His casual attitude made her want to punch him. He was too laid back, too reckless. But at the same time… she could tell there was more to him than just arrogance.
He noticed her staring. "What? Worried about me already?"
She scoffed. "Hardly. I just don't want to be collateral damage when they do catch you."
Jack chuckled. "Fair enough. But let's be real here, sweetheart—you got dragged into this. You could walk away right now."
Ify folded her arms. "Could I?"
Jack raised a brow, sensing something in her tone.
Before he could push further, the bartender suddenly walked over, setting a fresh drink on the table. Jack frowned. "Didn't order another one."
The bartender didn't look up, simply muttering, "From the man at the bar."
Both Ify and Jack turned their heads slightly. In the dimly lit establishment, a lone figure sat at the counter, nursing a drink. He was clad in a dark coat, hood pulled low over his face.
Jack's gut twisted. "Shit."
Ify immediately tensed. "Friend of yours?"
Jack slowly reached for his drink, keeping his movements casual. "Not exactly."
The hooded figure finally moved, turning his head just enough to let the flickering neon lights catch his features. His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he tapped his glass once—twice—then downed the rest of his drink in a single motion.
Then, without a word, he stood up and walked toward the exit.
Jack exhaled sharply. "We need to go."
Ify didn't hesitate. "Now you're making sense."
They both slipped out of the booth, moving quickly but not running—at least not yet. Jack led the way toward the back exit, his mind racing. If that guy was here, then it meant one of two things:
Either his buyer had decided to check up on him.
Or someone else had caught wind of the job.
Either way, Jack had a very, very bad feeling about this.
Jack kept his pace steady as he and Ify slipped through the back exit of the bar. The night air was cold, biting against his skin, but the chill running down his spine wasn't from the wind.
He knew that man at the counter.
And more importantly, he knew why he was here.
The meeting spot wasn't far—just a few blocks away, in a dimly lit alley behind an old bookstore. Jack had been in this game long enough to know that high-profile deals never happened in broad daylight, and people who dealt in ancient, pre-Solmiel artifacts weren't the type to appreciate an audience.
As expected, the hooded man from the bar was already waiting when they arrived.
Leaning casually against the brick wall, the man's hood remained low, his face barely visible beneath the dim streetlight. He held a leather briefcase in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.
Jack's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm.
"Right on time," the man muttered, taking a slow drag before exhaling. His voice was smooth, controlled—too controlled.
Jack wasn't in the mood for small talk. He reached into his coat, pulling out a black-wrapped bundle no larger than a book. The artifact.
He tossed it forward. The man caught it effortlessly.
For a long moment, he just stood there, fingers brushing over the wrapping. Then, with almost reverent care, he peeled the cloth back, just enough to reveal the ancient rune-inscribed metal beneath. The markings pulsed faintly, almost as if they were alive.
Ify stiffened beside Jack. Something about it felt… wrong.
But before she could voice her concerns, the man smiled. "Pleasure doing business with you."
He snapped his fingers, and one of his hidden associates—a tall, burly figure shrouded in darkness—stepped forward with a heavy black case.
Jack took it without hesitation, flicking the latches open just enough to see the neatly stacked bundles of crisp, high-value notes inside.
Satisfied, he shut the case and turned to leave—but the buyer's voice stopped him.
"Hold on," the man said, taking another drag of his cigarette. His eyes flicked toward Ify. "And who's this?"
Ify tensed.
Jack was already moving before she could respond. He stepped in front of her, flashing an easy grin. "Relax. She's not part of the deal."
The man hummed. "She was at the bar with you. That makes her involved."
Jack's grip on the case tightened. "She's just a friend."
There was a pause—one that felt far too long.
Then, the man let out a small chuckle, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "Fine. It's your problem, not mine."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, his associates following close behind.
The moment they were gone, Ify turned to Jack with a scathing glare.
"Seriously? You just gave it to them?"
Jack shrugged, tucking the case under his arm. "A deal's a deal."
Ify scoffed. "Do you even know what you just handed over?"
"Nope."
"Do you care?"
Jack flashed a lopsided smirk. "Not really."
Ify's fingers twitched. For a brief second, she considered slapping him—but what would be the point?
Jack exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Look, I get it. You're worried. But it's done. I got what I needed."
Ify narrowed her eyes. "You keep saying that. But something's bothering you, isn't it?"
Jack didn't respond right away.
Because she was right.
Something felt… off.
He had done jobs like this before—stolen high-value relics, dealt with dangerous people. But this time, there was an itch at the back of his skull, a sense that he had just moved a piece on a board he didn't understand.
But it was too late to take it back now.
So he shoved the feeling aside and started walking. "C'mon. I need to make a stop before heading home."
Ify followed, though she was still clearly annoyed. "Where?"
Jack smirked. "Pharmacy."
The bright lights of the pharmacy were almost blinding compared to the dark streets of Dravenholm. Jack strode to the counter, setting down a small slip of paper.
The pharmacist—a tired-looking woman in her forties—glanced at it before nodding. She disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with a small glass vial filled with a strange silver-blue liquid.
Jack handed over a thick stack of bills without hesitation.
Ify watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. "That's it?"
Jack pocketed the vial and started toward the exit. "Yep."
Ify followed, her frown deepening. "Is that supposed to cure her?"
Jack chuckled—but it was hollow. "Nah. Just keeps her alive a little longer."
Ify fell silent.
There was something about the way he said it—so casual, so detached—that made her chest tighten.
Jack didn't hope for a cure anymore.
He just hoped for more time.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Jack's "home" wasn't much—just a cramped apartment on the edge of the city, barely big enough for two people. But it was all he had.
As he unlocked the door, he glanced at Ify. "Don't freak her out, yeah? She's been through enough."
Ify simply nodded.
Jack stepped inside first, calling out, "Lena? I'm back—"
His words died in his throat.
The living room was wrecked—furniture overturned, papers scattered across the floor. A sharp metallic smell filled the air.
And in the center of it all, Lena sat trembling in a chair, her wrists bound, a knife pressed against her throat.
Behind her stood a man in a black suit, his face obscured by a mask.
But Jack didn't need to see his face.
He already knew who it was.
One of the many people he owed money to.
The man chuckled. "Welcome home, Jack."
Jack's stomach dropped.
He had just traded one problem for another.
Jack's hands slowly lifted in surrender as he took a careful step forward. "Hey, hey—let's not get ahead of ourselves."
The man in the black suit didn't move, the knife against Lena's throat pressing a fraction deeper. A thin line of blood welled up, and Lena whimpered.
Jack's fingers twitched.
"Alright, listen," he continued, voice even. "I know I owe you, but I've got money now. I can pay you off, no problem."
The masked man chuckled—a low, mocking sound. "Oh, I know, Jack. I know exactly what you just got paid."
Jack's stomach turned cold.
He should've known. Word traveled fast in the underworld.
The man pressed his knee into Lena's back, forcing a pained gasp from her. "Here's the thing. You don't get to decide how this plays out." He dragged the tip of the knife along her skin, just enough to sting. "You stole from the Fellowship, Jack. That puts a target on all of us."
Jack exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "So what? You want more money? Fine. I'll give you double."
The man smirked behind his mask. "Triple."
Jack's jaw clenched. "Pushing it, don't you think?"
The knife pressed deeper. Lena let out a sharp, choked sob.
Ify moved.
It was instantaneous—the shadows in the room stirred, stretching unnaturally. The temperature plummeted, and the air thickened with a suffocating presence.
Jack's head snapped toward her.
Her eyes had changed—pitch-black sclera, with pupils like molten blood.
Her fingers curled, and the shadows coiled at her command, tendrils of darkness slithering toward the masked man.
"Stand down," Jack ordered, his voice sharp.
Ify didn't budge.
The room dimmed, the lights flickering, as an unseen pressure crushed the air. The men in the room felt it, their confidence wavering.
Jack sighed, rolling his shoulders. "I said…"
He turned fully to Ify, eyes cold.
"…stand down."
There was something in his voice—a finality that made Ify hesitate.
The black sclera remained, but the shadow tendrils stopped creeping forward.
Jack turned back to the masked man, his movements slow and deliberate.
He reached for his coat buttons, undoing them one by one.
"Lena," he said, voice soft.
His sister's breathing was ragged, but she responded immediately.
"Close your eyes."
Lena squeezed them shut without hesitation.
Jack slid off his coat and let it drop to the ground.
His fingers flexed, and the dim light caught the faint scars on his knuckles—scars earned from a lifetime of fighting, gambling, and surviving.
The masked man scoffed. "What, you think you're gonna fight us?"
Jack smirked.
And then, for the first time that night, he spoke without an ounce of humor.
"Oh, I know I am."
The masked man barely had time to react before Jack moved.