The sun blazed mercilessly over London, yet the air clung to Jack with a biting chill, as though the city couldn't decide what it wanted to be. Jack hurried down the crowded streets, his pulse thudding in his ears. His feet moved on instinct, his chest tight with a sense of urgency he couldn't explain.
Ahead, an alley loomed—a dark, narrow path that cut through the chaos. He didn't hesitate. Ducking into the shadows, he darted forward, his boots echoing against the cobblestones.
Then he froze.
A man stood ahead of him, cloaked in shadow. Jack couldn't make out the stranger's features—his outline was a blur, like smoke caught in half-light. Jack's gaze dropped to the glint of metal in the man's hand. A gun.
The world seemed to hold its breath, then exploded with sound. The crack of a gunshot rang out, shattering the silence.
Jack jolted awake, a scream ripping from his throat as his body heaved forward. The room spun around him, and he clutched at his head as the familiar, searing pain stabbed into his skull. His chest rose and fell in desperate gasps, his heart racing as though it might tear itself free.
He reached out instinctively for the bottle of scotch on his bedside table, but his hand met nothing but empty wood. His bloodshot eyes darted frantically around the dim room, searching for anything to dull the pain.
"Damn it," he rasped, his voice raw and trembling.
Jack swung his legs off the bed, but they gave out beneath him, and he crumpled to the floor. Dragging himself toward the kitchen on weak arms, he could feel his heart hammering wildly, each beat a desperate protest.
What is happening to me?
The knock at the door was sharp and urgent, cutting through the haze of pain clouding his mind. Jack tried to call out, but his throat tightened, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. His limbs grew heavier as the edges of his vision darkened. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the soft click of his front door unlocking.
"Jack?" A woman's voice, trembling and familiar. "Jack!"
When Jack opened his eyes, the dim light of his apartment greeted him, along with the faint scent of mildew and scotch that clung to the air. His body felt like it had been run through a wringer, his muscles heavy and uncooperative. Blinking, he focused on the figure sitting beside him.
"Mrs. Harrison?" His voice was barely a whisper.
The older woman let out a relieved sigh, her lined face softening. "You scared me half to death, Jack." She leaned closer, brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead. "I heard you screaming. I thought I should check on you. Thank goodness I did."
Jack groaned, pressing his hand to his temple as if to push back the lingering ache. He managed a faint nod, unable to summon the energy to speak further.
Mrs. Harrison's lips pressed into a thin line. "Stay put," she said firmly. "I'll get you some water."
"No, wait," Jack rasped, his voice breaking. "Alcohol… it helps. Please."
Her face wavered between concern and hesitation before she gave a reluctant nod and disappeared into the kitchen. Jack lay still, staring at the ceiling as fragments of his nightmare swirled in his mind. The man. The alley. The gunshot.
He had seen it all before—countless times across thirty-six deaths. But something about this nightmare felt different. The man's face, his body… they were completely shrouded in darkness, indistinct and alien. Jack tried to piece it together, but the familiar stabbing pain returned, forcing him to abandon the thought.
Mrs. Harrison returned, balancing a glass of water in one hand and a half-empty bottle of scotch in the other. "Alright, sit up, Jack," she said, sliding her arm beneath his shoulders to help him into a sitting position.
Jack took the scotch with shaking hands, raising it to his lips and taking a long, desperate swig. The burn seared his throat, but relief followed swiftly, dulling the pain in his skull and slowing his frantic heartbeat. He let out a breath, lowering the bottle as his trembling subsided.
Mrs. Harrison studied him, her brow furrowed with worry. "How are you feeling now?" she asked, brushing his damp hair from his face.
"Better," Jack murmured, his voice steadier. "Thank you." He glanced at her, noticing her expression hadn't softened. "I'm fine, Mrs. Harrison," he assured her, forcing a weak smile.
She sighed, rising to her feet. "Get some rest, Jack," she said, her voice firm but kind. "You look like you've been through hell."
Jack watched as she left, closing the door behind her. "Rest," he muttered to himself, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "I haven't had any in thirty-six lives."
He sank back into the mattress, his mind racing. A sudden thought struck him, jolting him upright. The piece of paper.
Scrambling off the bed, Jack dropped to his knees and searched beneath it. His fingers brushed against the crumpled scrap, and he let out a sigh of relief as he pulled it free. Smoothing it out, he read the scrawled address aloud:
"King's Road. 22B. Central Apartment."
Jack sat back on his heels, staring at the paper. His encounter with Emma replayed in his mind. Maybe I should meet her again. She seemed to know something—something important.
"This is the closest I've been to finding the truth," he said to himself.
He grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he stepped out into the chilled morning air of London.