Crowe didn't rush the explanation.
That was the first thing Jack noticed.
After training, after the door inside him had opened and closed like a muscle learning to flex, Crowe didn't immediately shove him into the next fight. He let Jack breathe. He let the tremors in Jack's hands settle. He let the silence stretch until it wasn't panic anymore—just the quiet weight of reality.
Then Crowe sat across from him on the mats and said, "There are monsters wearing human skin."
Jack stared at the floor. "I've met some."
Crowe's expression didn't change. "Not the kind who insult you. The kind who profit from gates. The kind who manufacture disasters, then sell the solution."
Jack looked up. "You mean like the falsified gate?"
Crowe nodded once. "Exactly like that."
The voice inside Jack stirred with faint interest.
"Corruption."
Crowe stood and walked to a metal locker embedded in the wall. He opened it and pulled out a thin folder—creased, stained, handled too many times. He tossed it to Jack.
Jack flipped it open.
Photos.
A man with slicked-back hair and a gold ring on every finger. A smug smile. Expensive suit. Backgrounds that changed—clubs, penthouses, private garages.
There were other pictures too.
Bodies.
Hunters in restraints.
A door marked with containment sigils.
Jack's stomach tightened.
"What is this?" he asked.
Crowe's voice stayed flat. "His name is Vance Harrow. He runs a trafficking network under the city. Hunters go missing. Civilians go missing. People with potential—people the system doesn't protect—disappear. And they end up in places like this."
Jack turned a page.
A photo of a girl—maybe sixteen—eyes wide, face bruised, a barcode-like mark burned into her wrist.
Jack's grip tightened. "Is she—"
"Dead," Crowe said simply. "Most of them are."
Jack stared at the folder, throat tight. "Why isn't he in prison?"
Crowe's mouth twisted. "Because he's useful."
Jack looked up sharply. "Useful to who?"
Crowe's gaze didn't flinch. "People higher than me. People who call themselves protectors and do business with devils."
The voice inside Jack hummed.
"Everyone bargains."
Jack slammed the folder shut. "So what? We kill him?"
Crowe didn't answer immediately.
He walked to the cracked mirror and stared at his reflection like he didn't trust it.
"I've wanted him dead for years," Crowe said quietly. "But I couldn't touch him. Not without starting a war I'd lose."
Jack's pulse quickened. "Why can we touch him now?"
Crowe turned.
"Because you're already at war," Crowe said. "You just didn't know it."
Jack swallowed.
Crowe stepped closer and knelt in front of Jack. His voice lowered.
"If they catch you, they won't cage you," Crowe said. "They'll dissect you. They'll carve you open until they understand the door inside you."
Jack's stomach turned. The image of white rooms and cold hands flashed in his mind.
Crowe continued. "So we need leverage. We need resources. We need a place to hide that isn't mine."
Jack frowned. "And Harrow gives us that?"
"No," Crowe said. "Harrow gives us something better."
Jack waited.
Crowe's eyes hardened. "A message."
Jack's mouth went dry. "What kind of message?"
"A message to the underground," Crowe said. "To the people who watch. To the people who sell lives like currency."
Crowe placed the folder back in Jack's hands.
"You don't have to do it," Crowe said. "I can still turn you in. I can still let the system erase you and pretend I did the right thing."
The words were calm.
But Jack heard the truth under them:
Crowe wanted Jack to refuse.
Because if Jack said yes…
Then Crowe would have to accept what Jack was becoming.
The voice inside Jack whispered softly.
"Say yes."
Jack's jaw tightened. "Stop."
Crowe's eyes narrowed. "It said that."
Jack nodded, breathing hard. "It wants me to cross lines."
Crowe's expression darkened. "Of course it does. That's how it wins."
Jack stared at the folder again, at the bruised girl, at the restraints, at the bodies.
His chest felt hollow.
And that hollow space didn't fill with rage.
It filled with something colder.
Something precise.
Jack looked up.
"What's the plan?" he asked.
Crowe exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath since the SS-Rank left the room.
"Harrow meets his buyers in a private club called The Vellum," Crowe said. "Top floor. Controlled entry. Anti-recording wards. He thinks it's safe."
Jack's stomach turned. "A club?"
Crowe nodded. "He doesn't hide in alleys. He hides in luxury."
Jack stood, wincing. "I can barely walk."
"You don't have to fight," Crowe said. "Not with your body."
Jack frowned. "Then what do I do?"
Crowe held his gaze.
"You open the door," Crowe said. "Once. Controlled. Focused."
Jack swallowed. "And if I can't control it?"
Crowe's voice went quiet. "Then I'll stop you."
Jack stared at him. "You mean you'll kill me."
Crowe didn't deny it.
His eyes carried something like grief.
"I don't want to," Crowe said. "But I will. If you turn into the other future."
The words should've broken Jack.
Instead, they grounded him.
Because it meant Crowe was still human.
And maybe Jack still was too.
Jack nodded once. "When do we go?"
Crowe's answer was immediate.
"Tonight," he said.
Jack's heart pounded.
The voice inside him smiled.
"Good."
Crowe turned toward the door, already moving, already planning.
Jack followed, folder still clenched in his left hand.
And as they stepped back into the undercity's dim corridors, Jack realized the truth:
The dungeon hadn't been his first kill.
It had been his first excuse.
Tonight would be his first choice.
ANTI-HERO FROM HELL: REBORN
Chapter 12 — The Vellum
The club didn't look like a crime scene.
That was the first lie.
From the outside, The Vellum was a blade of glass and steel rising from the middle of a decaying block, neon letters flickering softly in the rain. Valets in tailored coats moved between luxury cars. Guests in silk dresses and designer suits stepped out, laughing, drinking, pretending the city wasn't rotting beneath their feet.
Jack had never been inside a place like this.
Crowe adjusted the collar of his borrowed suit as they approached the entrance. He looked different in formal clothes—still dangerous, but polished, like a weapon hidden behind velvet.
"You ready?" Crowe murmured.
Jack nodded, though his stomach was tight.
He wore a black jacket that hid the stabilizers on his ribs and a simple mask that covered the top half of his face. The underground broker Crowe had called in owed him a favor—two, actually—and had delivered their disguises without asking too many questions.
The voice inside Jack was quiet.
Watching.
They passed the guards without trouble. No scanners. No ID checks. Just a brief flicker of a ward as they crossed the threshold—designed to block recording devices and dampen auras.
Inside, The Vellum was all shadows and soft gold light.
Music hummed low, sensual and slow. Waiters moved between tables with trays of crystal glasses. Private booths lined the walls, each screened by thin veils of light that kept conversations from being overheard.
Crowe leaned in. "No heroics," he whispered. "We observe first."
Jack nodded, eyes scanning the room.
Hunters were everywhere.
Not in armor. Not with weapons.
But Jack could feel their auras—suppressed, hidden under tailored jackets and jewelry.
This wasn't a club.
It was a marketplace.
Crowe guided him toward the bar, where a man with cybernetic eyes poured glowing drinks for people who smiled too easily.
"Who are they?" Jack whispered.
"Buyers," Crowe replied. "Collectors. Brokers. Some of them work for the system. Some of them work against it. All of them profit."
Jack's jaw tightened.
The voice whispered softly.
"Hypocrisy."
Crowe spotted Harrow near the far side of the room, seated in a private booth with two well-dressed figures. Even at a distance, the man's arrogance was visible—the way he leaned back, ringed fingers resting on the table like he owned the world.
"That's him," Crowe murmured.
Jack's pulse quickened.
"Wait," Crowe said. "We need proof first."
Jack frowned. "Proof of what?"
"That he deserves what's coming," Crowe said quietly.
They drifted closer, pretending to be just another pair of rich hunters enjoying the night. Jack focused on breathing, on not letting the seam inside him stir.
As they neared the booth, Jack caught fragments of conversation through the warded veil.
"…next shipment," Harrow was saying. "Three promising ones. Two from falsified D-gates, one civilian with latent potential."
A woman laughed softly. "Always so efficient, Vance."
Harrow grinned. "Efficiency is profit."
Jack felt something twist in his chest.
The voice whispered.
"They sell futures."
Crowe's eyes darkened.
"…payment will be processed through the usual channels," one of the buyers continued. "The Council prefers discretion."
Crowe went still.
Jack stared.
The Council.
The system.
The protectors.
They were in this.
Crowe's jaw clenched.
"Now?" Jack whispered.
Crowe hesitated.
Then he nodded.
Jack swallowed.
The seam inside him stirred, as if it had been waiting.
And in the golden glow of The Vellum, surrounded by laughing monsters in human skin, Jack took his first step toward becoming something far worse