The engine of Jack's car died, plunging the street into a sudden, heavy silence. He got
out, the cool night air a stark contrast to the lingering warmth from his meeting with
Rose. He was typing a message on his phone, a smile still playing on his lips, when a
voice cut through the quiet. It was coming from the side of his house.
"Yeah, yeah. You can release them."
Jack's smile vanished. He moved silently, hugging the shadows of his own home, his
footsteps making no sound on the pavement. He saw Mark, his neighbor, his back to
him, his voice a low murmur into his phone.
"Yes, I got the money."
Just then, Mark turned, and his eyes met Jack's. The friendly neighborly expression on
Mark's face flickered, replaced by a momentary shock before a practiced composure
settled back in.
"Jack! What are you doing here?"
Jack felt a jolt of surprise himself, caught in the act of eavesdropping. "Um—I just
heard someone talking," he stammered, "and I thought I might check it out."
Mark's smile returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Can I buy you a drink, Jack?"
The bar was dark and smelled of stale beer and secrets. They sat facing each other,
two glasses of amber liquid on the table between them. Jack hadn't touched his. Mark
was already two sips in.
"I know you heard what I spoke on the phone," Mark said, breaking the silence. "It's
f
ine. I don't mind."
Jack frowned. "What?"
"What?" Mark mimicked, his tone flat.
Jack shook his head slowly. "Are you not ashamed, Mark?" he asked, leaning forward,
his voice low. "Are you not ashamed of the kind of example you are setting for your
kid?"
Mark smiled, a tired, cynical twist of his lips. "Nope."
Jack opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He leaned back, slumping into the
chair, and threw a hand up in a gesture of surrender.
"I know how it feels," Mark said, his voice softening slightly. "I know you're a good guy,
a righteous guy, but look… one cannot survive without getting their hands dirty."
Jack's eyes flashed with anger. He leaned forward again, his fists planting themselves
on the table, his voice a harsh, controlled shout that didn't carry beyond their booth.
"I'm surviving fine, Mark! I'm surviving fucking fine! Without getting my—" He cut
himself off, glaring at the man across from him.
Mark took another slow sip of his drink and set the glass down with a soft click.
"Tommy is diagnosed with Sarcomas."
Jack's anger deflated, replaced by confusion. "What's that?"
"It's a type of cancer. Bone cancer. It affects the soft tissues in your body."
Jack exhaled, a long, slow breath. He looked Mark in the eye, searching for a lie and
f
inding none.
"The cost of treatment is so high, Jack," Mark continued, his voice heavy. "It's not
something I can't afford. I can. But I also want to live a comfortable life." He leaned
forward, his own intensity matching Jack's from moments before. "I don't want to be
eating two meals a day, working overtime, meeting deadlines just to pay the bills. If
the people we are protecting are living comfortable lives, why can't we?"
Jack's mind reeled, his rigid sense of justice cracking under the weight of this new,
messy reality. "But—"
He was cut off by the buzzing of Mark's phone. Mark picked it up. "Yes?" His face
hardened as he listened. "Alright, coming right away." He stood, pulling a wad of cash
from his pocket and dropping it on the table. "The Widow committed another murder.
Those bastards."
Jack looked up, his own problems momentarily forgotten. "What?" he exclaimed.
Mark's eyes narrowed, his cop instincts kicking in. "You support them, don't you?"
Jack didn't answer. "I know. You're probably thinking, those Widow and Phantom,
despite their killings, are doing good for the society."
"You don't get to talk, Mark," Jack said, his voice cold. "You don't."
"At least I'm not a killer, Jack," Mark's voice softened again, a strange mix of pity and
accusation in his tone. "People are not evil for evil's sake. I'm sure that the people
those two fuckers killed… they didn't do anything to deserve such a horrible death."
Jack didn't respond, lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts.
"Alright, I have to go," Mark said, turning to leave.
Jack sat alone, staring at the untouched glass of alcohol. He picked it up, the amber
liquid catching the dim light. He downed it in one go, the burn in his throat a welcome
distraction. He got up and walked out of the bar.
Back in his house, Jack stood over the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on his face
again and again. He looked up, his eyes meeting his own reflection in the mirror.
"Why couldn't I do it?" he whispered to the man in the glass. "Was it because of
Tommy?" He gripped his head with both hands, a silent scream building inside him. "I
couldn't do it. It was an excuse." His voice rose. "It was an excuse!"
He dropped his hands and stared at his reflection, at the man who had hesitated, who
had let a corrupt cop walk away. With a roar of pure rage, he punched the mirror.
"He deserves to die!"
Punch.
The glass fractured.
Punch.
"He deserves to die!"
Punch.
"Ahhhhh!!! He fucking deserves to die!"
He stopped, his chest heaving, his knuckles bloody and raw. The mirror was a
spiderweb of cracks, his own face shattered into a dozen broken pieces.
At the same time, on the outskirts of the city, Mark knelt beside a new body. The air
was thick with the smell of decay. The victim was a male, his thumbs expertly
removed. He was pinned to the ground, his limbs positioned like a grotesque statue.
Mark pulled his mask up over his nose. "Holy fuck," he muttered.
Jack was asleep, his bandaged hand resting on the pillow beside him, when the
doorbell rang.
Knock.
He shifted, a low groan escaping his lips.
Knock.
He stirred, slowly pulling himself from the depths of a troubled sleep. He swung his
legs out of bed, put on his slippers, and shuffled to the front door. He opened it to a
blinding light. He blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust.
It was the police.
"You are under arrest on account of murder," an officer said, his voice devoid of
emotion.
Jack's mind went blank. "What?"
He saw a familiar figure standing in the background, behind the uniformed officers. It
was Mark. His face was a mask of disappointment.