The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time the media crews began to swarm the streets outside the concert hall. The flashing lights from the cameras added an almost surreal quality to the already tense air. Reporters shouted questions, trying to piece together the chaos of the evening, as Sarah Lee stood at the podium, flanked by her security team.
"Sarah, did you have any involvement in the attack?" a reporter asked, holding his microphone high.
Sarah blinked, her eyes still red from the traumatic events of the night. Her hands clenched at her sides, and her voice, though steady, wavered with exhaustion. "No," she said firmly. "I had no involvement. I was just performing. This is all on the people who caused the terror."
The crowd of reporters shifted, murmurs passing between them as they processed her response. Then another voice called out, this time from the back of the room.
"Can you tell us why the terrorists targeted you specifically? Was it personal?"
Sarah's gaze faltered for a brief moment. The thought that someone could have targeted her so violently sent a chill through her. But she straightened, pulling herself together as best she could. "I… I can't speak for them," she said softly. "But it wasn't personal. It was just... madness. That's all I can say."
Just then, the camera shifted to the captured terrorists, sitting behind bars in a cold, dimly lit interrogation room. One of them, a man in his late twenties, was being questioned.
"Why did you do it?" the detective asked, his voice calm but insistent.
The man leaned forward, his face gaunt, eyes twitching. "It wasn't about her," he muttered, his voice cracking. "We just wanted attention... to be seen. We thought… thought that if we could make enough noise, if we could scare people, we'd finally matter."
His eyes darted nervously around the room, his grip on the chair tightening. "She didn't do anything. We just… wanted attention. Wanted to make her notice us."
The detective exchanged a glance with his partner. It was clear now—the terrorist's actions weren't about politics or ideology. It was a cry for attention, warped by mental illness. They had tried to force the world to see them, to give them something they felt they had lost long ago: significance.
Back at the concert hall, chaos had subsided. The police had gained control, securing the perimeter while medical teams worked frantically to treat the wounded. But in the midst of all this, Jack sat in his hiding place, feeling the weight of his own helplessness crash down on him.
He had wanted to do something. Anything. But when it came time for action, he was paralyzed. He felt as though his body betrayed him, his heart pounding in his chest as he trembled from fear and frustration. His mind kept racing, thinking of every way he could have made a difference—but each plan was quickly dashed as he realized he was too far from the action. Too weak. Too powerless.
"I… I couldn't even help," Jack muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, as his gaze remained fixed on the door, the sounds of the chaos outside seeping into the room. "I couldn't do anything."
He wanted to fight. To rush out there and protect people. To stop the terrorists. But he felt a crushing weight of insecurity pressing down on him. The fear of failure—the fear that his own limitations would get in the way—left him feeling small. Unworthy. He wasn't a hero. Not like he had imagined in his fantasies. He was just... Jack. The guy who always missed the action. Always on the sidelines.
A faint noise outside pulled him from his thoughts. His hands were shaking as he clutched his phone, staring at the screen. Alastor's name flashed across the display. Jack took a breath, trying to steady himself. He hit 'accept' and brought the phone to his ear.
"Jack? You okay?" Alastor's voice came through the speaker, calm but with an edge of concern.
"I'm fine, just…" Jack's voice faltered. He wanted to tell Alastor everything—the fear, the helplessness, the shame—but the words caught in his throat. "I didn't do anything. I couldn't do anything. I just… ran. I hid."
There was a brief silence on the other end. Alastor, usually so composed, seemed to understand Jack's frustration, but he didn't rush to reassure him with empty words.
"Sometimes, surviving is all you can do in a situation like that," Alastor said quietly, his tone steady and wise. "It's not about being a hero. It's about staying alive. And you did that. That's something."
Jack wanted to argue. He wanted to scream about how he should've done more, how he could've done more. But the simple truth was that he couldn't. Not yet. Not without more strength, more courage.
But something about Alastor's words didn't sit right. The calmness in his voice, as though the chaos around them was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. Jack had been there, had felt the weight of it all—the rush of panic, the sting of uncertainty—but Alastor? He sounded untouched, almost detached. It was as if he knew exactly what would happen, as if the storm had been nothing more than a plan set in motion.
Jack's mind wandered back to the phone call earlier, Alastor's steady reassurance still ringing in his ears. "Just stay where you are. You're safe for now. Do not come out." The words, meant to comfort, now only raised more questions.
Jack tilted his head, a teasing smirk spreading across his face. "You know, Alastor," he said, trying to sound casual, "I bet you had some sort of powers that saved the day, huh? I mean, you were so calm. So... collected. It's like you knew what was going to happen."
Alastor chuckled softly on the other end, his tone light. "Powers? Nah. I think you're giving me too much credit. The terrorists were probably on some kind of drugs, right? That's what made them snap. Nothing supernatural about that."
Jack paused. The words didn't sit well with him. Alastor's response was too easy, too quick. It almost felt like he was brushing off the possibility of something bigger at play. But then again, Alastor always played things off with his cool, almost detached manner. Maybe Jack was reading too much into it.
Still, a nagging suspicion remained. He'd have to keep his eyes open for any more strange occurrences. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to Alastor than he let on. Something that didn't quite add up, especially with the strange flashes of light and the sudden calming of the chaos just moments before the terrorists were neutralized.
Could Alastor have done this?
Jack shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. He was probably just overthinking. But even as he put the phone down, his mind kept circling back to that moment—the one where the chaos seemed to settle almost too perfectly. Alastor's cryptic response, his calm demeanor, and the odd feeling that something cosmic had been at play, all gnawed at the back of Jack's mind.
The next day, the news was everywhere. The terrorists were in custody, their confession broadcasted for the world to hear. The tragedy that had unfolded at Sarah Lee's concert was no longer just a local incident; it was national news. Sarah Lee, safe but emotionally shattered, spoke briefly with the press, expressing her grief over the lives lost.
"I'm so sorry for the lives that were taken here," Sarah's voice trembled as she stood before the cameras, a stark contrast to the powerful stage presence she usually exuded. "I didn't want this. None of us wanted this."
The reporters nodded solemnly, their pens scratching furiously as they captured every word. The news cycle moved quickly, as it always did. But the impact lingered.
Back home, Jack sat alone on his couch, staring at the TV as the images of the previous night replayed. He saw Sarah Lee's face, pale and distraught. The pain in her eyes matched his own sense of guilt, but it was different—her guilt was one of survival. Jack's was one of not acting. Of feeling powerless. Of knowing that he wasn't ready to handle a situation like that. Not yet.
But the thought kept gnawing at him. The idea that he wasn't powerless forever. That maybe, just maybe, he could become stronger. Not for the glory. Not for fame. But for moments like these, when someone had to be the one to act.
Meanwhile, Alastor sat across from Mr. Thompson in their usual booth at the café, the conversation flowing as it usually did. Mr. Thompson, despite his gruff exterior, was more than just a surface-level character. He had lived a life, one full of regrets and triumphs, loves and losses. Alastor had seen glimpses of it over the years, but today, as they spoke, something was different.
"You know," Mr. Thompson said, taking a sip of his coffee, "there was a time when I thought I'd be someone important. Someone who made a difference." He smiled wryly. "But I learned the hard way that it's not always about being a hero."
Alastor, for once, didn't respond immediately. He listened, truly listening, as Mr. Thompson opened up in a way he never had before.
"You don't have to be a hero, Thompson," Alastor said softly, his voice carrying a quiet weight. "Sometimes, just surviving, just getting through the day... that's enough. But it doesn't mean you stop trying."
Mr. Thompson looked at Alastor with a puzzled expression, as if trying to understand the depths of his words. "Yeah, well... you seem to have that figured out, don't you? Always calm, always in control. I don't know how you do it."
Alastor met his gaze, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes. "I don't have everything figured out. I just... choose my moments." His lips curled into a thin smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes, the right moment is the one where you do nothing at all."
Mr. Thompson raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, the door of the café swung open, a burst of cold air rushing in. It was the kind of day where the sun didn't seem to want to shine, the clouds hanging low in the sky, a perfect reflection of the tension still lingering in the aftermath of the previous night's events.
Alastor stood, his chair scraping against the floor with a soft, but deliberate sound. He looked down at Mr. Thompson for a moment longer, as if considering something. Then, he turned and walked towards the door. "Sometimes, the real power is knowing when to stay hidden," he muttered just loud enough for Thompson to hear, before he stepped out into the cold night.
Alone in the café, Mr. Thompson sat back, his mind racing. Something about Alastor... there was always something off. The way he spoke, the way he acted—too composed, too detached. It was as if he wasn't entirely human, as if there was more beneath the surface, and Thompson couldn't shake the feeling that whatever Alastor was hiding, it was more than just a quiet, enigmatic personality.
Back in his apartment, Jack's mind was still whirling. His conversation with Alastor had done little to ease his suspicions. The strange flash of light, the calming effect in the midst of chaos, the way Alastor had played it off... Jack couldn't let it go. He'd been in close proximity to the scene, and the moment everything had shifted, he'd felt something beyond human capability at play. Maybe it wasn't just a fluke. Maybe Alastor had done something.
Still, he tried to push the thought away, telling himself he was overthinking. Alastor's explanation seemed reasonable. After all, if anyone knew how to defuse a tense situation, it was someone like him, right? Someone calm, composed, with the ability to handle whatever came his way.
But the nagging feeling remained, circling back to that moment of clarity—right after the flash, when everything had fallen eerily still. Jack couldn't help but wonder: Could Alastor have done this?