The memory came unbidden, searing through Jack's mind like a jagged knife. He saw Amon—his own small hands trembling as they clutched a blade. The child's face, his face, was pale, void of reason. Blood dripped onto the floor, pooling at his bare feet. A guttural sound escaped from his lips, part gasp, part laugh, as he plunged the blade into his abdomen.
Jack staggered back, gasping for breath as the memory jolted him into the present. He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to push the vision away, but it clung to him like a shadow.
"What kind of twisted...?" Jack muttered under his breath, his voice tight with disbelief. He stumbled to the door of the orphanage and flung it open, needing air, needing space.
The cold wind bit at his skin as he stormed down the gravel path, his boots crunching against the earth. His mind churned, images flashing behind his eyes—Amon's shaky hands, the gleam of the knife, the sickening sound of flesh tearing.
"This kid was insane," Jack hissed, anger bubbling up in his chest. "Testing murder on himself? What the hell was wrong with him?"
As he walked, his hand shot out, snapping a branch from a nearby bush. He hurled it to the ground, the brittle wood splintering on impact. The frustration coursed through him, raw and relentless.
Near the edge of the forest, something caught his eye. A glint of metal, dulled by rust, protruded from the dirt. Jack crouched, brushing the leaves aside to uncover a dagger, its blade chipped and pitted with age. He picked it up, its weight solid in his hand.
The sight of the weapon made his stomach twist. The parallels were too sharp. His grip tightened around the hilt as he pushed into the forest, the towering trees swallowing him whole.
The deeper he went, the quieter it became. The rustle of leaves and distant calls of birds faded until only the sound of his own footsteps remained. The forest was oppressive, the canopy above blotting out the sun, and yet Jack welcomed its silence.
That's when the next memory hit.
A face—older, familiar—flashed before him. Bob. The man Jack had killed upon clawing his way out of the grave. The scene sharpened in his mind: the shock in Bob's eyes, the recognition, the faint flicker of hesitation before Jack had driven the blade home.
It wasn't just chance. Bob wasn't a random victim.
"He was... family," Jack realized, his voice barely above a whisper.
The pieces began to fall into place, jagged and cruel. Bob had been Amon's older brother. He had found Amon's lifeless body after the boy's grotesque experiment. The memory shifted again—Bob, at thirteen, kneeling beside Amon's corpse, his face pale with terror. Instead of telling their parents, he'd wrapped the body in a makeshift shroud and dragged it to the graveyard.
"He buried him," Jack murmured, the dagger still clenched in his hand.
The weight of the realization bore down on him. Bob had lied, telling their parents that Amon had disappeared, leaving them to search fruitlessly for eight years. And now, Jack had killed him.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, devoid of humor. "This family is cursed."
The thought of Amon's parents clawed at his mind. They were out there, still searching, still hoping for their son's return. The irony of it made Jack's stomach churn. He wanted to care—maybe a part of Amon still did—but the cold pragmatism in him crushed the thought before it could take root.
"This isn't my burden," Jack said, his voice firm. He stared at the rusty dagger, turning it over in his hand. "It's his."
But as he spoke, another memory surfaced—Amon's parents calling his name, their voices breaking with desperation. The sound lingered, haunting, even as Jack shook his head to clear it.
He rose, the forest around him dark and foreboding. The weight of the past pressed heavily against him, but he shoved it aside. He had to move forward. The only way out of this chaos was to carve a path through it.
With a final glance at the dagger, Jack turned deeper into the woods, his steps deliberate, his grip steady. But no matter how far he walked, the echoes of Amon's life trailed him, refusing to be left behind.