Jason sat in silence, his voice hollow when he finally spoke.
"So now… I'm here. In front of you."
Amon lounged beside him, as if he had always been there. His tone was almost conversational, too ordinary for a being like him.
"Hm. And what's your next plan?"
Jason stared at the floor. His reply came low, broken.
"I… don't know."
A week ago, he had been on the basketball court, thinking about college, his sister alive in the stands, cheering. Now he was here, with whatever this thing was, with nothing but grief and confusion pressing down on him.
Amon leaned back, twirling the strange key between his fingers. His smile never faltered.
"Well then. I have a proposition for you. It's simple, really. I need an anchor in this world—someone through whom I can act. In return, I'll grant you unimaginable power. All you have to do is complete certain missions for me." His eyes glinted. "But of course… nothing comes free."
Jason turned his head slowly, his voice flat.
"And if I say no? What happens then?"
"Nothing." Amon shrugged, as if Jason had asked whether he wanted sugar in his tea. "But think carefully. Chances like this don't come often. Right now, you have nothing to lose. Nothing to sacrifice. You could accept, gain power freely, become my anchor. But…" He tilted his head, almost playfully. "I can't promise this opportunity will stay the same in the future."
Jason's gaze locked with Amon's, searching for any trap, any flicker of malice. But all he saw was that endless, mocking cheer. He drew in a long breath, steadied his chest, and spoke with finality.
"No."
For the first time, Amon's smile wavered—just slightly. The playful light dimmed, replaced by something colder before his mask slipped back on.
"Very well," Amon said, cheerful again but lacking his usual sharpness. "Your choice."
The world blinked. In one moment, Jason sat in the void. In the next, he stood outside, near the prison forest, night air biting at his skin. He looked down in disbelief—his hand clenched around the key.
"…So it wasn't a hallucination," he muttered under his breath.
He turned toward the distant highway and began to walk.
The road back into the city felt longer than it ever had. Jason's sneakers scuffed the pavement, each step heavy. Just hours ago, he'd been locked up in a holding facility on the outskirts of Los Angeles—nothing permanent, just a transfer point before they shipped him to a bigger prison upstate. The place had been cold, temporary, a limbo of steel doors and waiting guards. And yet, somehow, that felt easier than this walk into the city.
The forest gave way to streetlamps and quiet rows of buildings. The night air pressed down on him, carrying echoes of Elena—her laugh, the way she teased him for daydreaming, the smell of her late-night coffee drifting through their apartment.
By the time his block came into view, the memories were a knife. Their building loomed ahead, yellow tape strung across the entrance. The apartment—their place—looked wrong under the dim glow of the floodlights. Smaller. Emptier.
Jason ducked under the tape, his jaw tight. The police had already done their sweep. The place was torn apart, but not like a normal burglary. Drawers pulled, cushions ripped, shelves toppled. Someone had searched with intent. Methodical. But they hadn't found what they wanted.
Jason didn't let the grief spill here. Not inside. Inside, he became quiet, deliberate. His eyes traced every detail like a player reviewing game tape.
At the entrance, a crooked picture frame caught his eye. He froze. Elena's voice surfaced in his head: "People are stupid. They always hide things in bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens. First places anyone searches. Best place is where no one bothers to look—right by the door."
His hand slid behind the frame. Something shifted. Jason pulled out a slim bundle: folded notes and a second phone.
He held the phone in his palm, the weight of it making his throat tighten. He remembered Elena's easy grin when she first told him she had a "back-up line" just in case. She'd laughed about it, but her eyes had been serious.
The phone lit up with a faint glow. Battery low, but alive. A string of recent calls showed up—one number, dialed again and again. He knew it instantly. Jefferson.
Jason exhaled shakily. Of course she'd called him. Jefferson had always been there—for both of them. He was the one who'd fought for Jason's custody after their parents died. The one who got Elena her steady job when money was thin. The one who never let them feel alone.
Behind the phone, the folded notes told their own quiet story. Elena's handwriting—lists, dates, half-thoughts about people Jason didn't know. A few pages looked more like a diary. Not enough to understand yet, but enough to feel like threads waiting to be pulled. Jason could see patterns, subtle codes embedded into everyday words. Only the writer could decode them—and only Jefferson, who had taught her this method, could make sense of it.
Jason slid everything into his pocket.
The apartment wasn't safe anymore. Whoever tore it apart might come back. The cops had already filed it as "robbery gone wrong," but he could see it wasn't random. Not to him.
(Third person pov )
Nathaniel had been a happy man—until his boss saddled him with this job.
Day and night, he'd been posted across the street, watching the same damn apartment. He and his crew had already torn the place apart before the cops showed up. Nothing. No stash, no files, no hidden drive. Just dust and broken furniture. Still, orders were orders. Keep watch until the boss said otherwise.
Nathaniel was sure no one would ever come back. After all, he'd done the background check himself. The boy was supposed to be in holding, the sister was dead. Case closed.
So when a young man slipped under the tape and went straight inside, Nathaniel almost dropped his cigarette.
He fumbled his phone, dialing quick. "Boss. You were right. Someone just went in."
A low voice crackled through the speaker. Calm. Cold. "Good. As soon as he steps out, catch him."
"Got it." Nathaniel swallowed, then hesitated. "Should I loop in Prowler too?"
A pause. Then, sharper: "Yes. I'm not here to clean up his mess. Tell him."
The line went dead. Nathaniel cursed under his breath. "Damn bastard." He pocketed the phone, muttering, "Still holding that pool joke against me…"
He waved to his men, voice rough. "Move. Now."
Boots pounded pavement as they stormed the building. Nathaniel kicked open the door to the third-floor apartment—just in time to see a figure slipping out the fire escape.
"Son of a—" He charged forward, barking into his radio. "Cut him off! Don't let him get away!"
(Jason pov)
Jason's boots hit the fire escape with a hollow clang. The rusted ladder rattled under his weight as he started to climb, his breath sharp in the night air. He'd done this too many times before, the rhythm almost second nature. But the men following him weren't far behind—he caught the echo of a curse, the scuff of shoes, then the telltale creak above.
Two shadows waited on the roofline, silhouettes against the orange haze of the city.
"fuck" Jason cursed to himself, then hurled himself sideways. He vaulted off the railing, slamming onto the narrow balcony of the neighboring building. The iron rail groaned, but it held. He rolled, came up, and dropped down to the next floor. By the time the men adjusted, he was already scaling down, three steps ahead.
The alley stank of old grease and rainwater. Neon light flickered from a half-dead sign across the street, painting everything sickly pink and green. Jason cut through, boots splashing puddles. He didn't look back—but the pounding footsteps followed.
His way forward suddenly blocked. A biker in a leather jacket swung off his motorcycle, shouting something Jason didn't bother to hear. He didn't give the man a chance. Jason snatched a glass bottle from a trash can and hurled it.
The biker twisted his head at the last second—the bottle shattered harmlessly against the wall. He grinned, cocky for a split second—then Jason was already moving. His boot snapped up in a vicious arc. The biker's grin vanished in a wet crunch as Jason's shoe smashed across his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He crumpled to the pavement, out cold.
Jason bent down, ripped the leather jacket off him, and shrugged it on, hiding the prison uniform beneath. He grabbed the biker's phone, shoved it in his pocket, then swung onto the motorcycle. The engine roared, echoing down the alley as he tore off.
---
He ducked into a side street, thumb flicking open Elena's second phone. A short text—nothing more than:
> Need to meet. Old spot.
Send.
Almost instantly, a reply buzzed back:
> Understood.
Jason's chest tightened. Jefferson didn't even ask who was on the other end. Strange. But Jason had no time to ponder this.
He shoved the thought down. No time.
Jason weaved through the backstreets, the city around him a husk of itself—broken lamps, trash-strewn alleys, the faint hum of an elevated train cutting through the night.
At a corner, he slowed, pulling Elena's battered notebook from his jacket. He thumbed through the pages, notes scrawled in her careful, hidden patterns. On the last page, his breath caught:
He is here for me. The Prowler—
The sentence cut off mid-stroke. Jason stared at the half-finished words, questions burning. He couldn't make sense of her coded phrasing, but he knew someone who could. Jefferson—he was the one who had taught her to write this way, to cloak meaning so only the intended reader could untangle it.
Jason shoved the notebook away and pushed on, the warehouse looming ahead.
---
The side door groaned as Jason slipped inside. The warehouse smelled of rust and damp wood, moonlight falling in fractured lines through broken panels above.
A knot tightened in his gut. He didn't know why, but something was wrong. He thought of Elena—how sharp she had been at piecing things together, how she would have caught every detail he was missing now.
A buzz jolted him. Jason froze. The biker's stolen phone lit up with a message:
Why didn't you catch him outside, idiot? Now come inside.
Jason's head lifted. Across the dim floor, Jefferson stood still. A phone in his hand. For the briefest second, there was surprise in Jefferson's eyes—then a sad smile flickered across his face, faint but unmistakable, before his expression hardened, shuttering everything away.
The silence split open as the warehouse's main doors crashed wide. Heavy footsteps flooded in, voices echoing off the steel walls.
A gangster shouted, "Boss! Thank God you cornered him—he's a slippery fucker. Slipped right through Nathan's crew's hands like nothing!"
Jason turned to Jefferson, disbelief sharp in his chest.
Jefferson didn't speak. Didn't explain. Just stood there, gaze locked, the weight of unspoken truth pressing between them.
(Cliff-kun say's hello )