The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hall as Jack moved, his mind heavy with the aftermath of the confrontation. Clara's sharp words rang in his ears, each syllable digging into him like a shard of glass. Eli's cold sneer was still fresh, a reminder of the power they thought they had over him. The cryptic letter, now balled in his pocket, burned against his skin, a constant reminder of the deeper fracture within him.
His heart thudded in his chest, a pulsing drum that refused to slow. Each beat was a reminder: Amon. Amon. Amon. The name twisted in his mind like a serpent, coiling tighter with each passing second.
Jack turned the corner, his eyes locked on the familiar door of his room, the only place where he could find some semblance of solitude. The shadows seemed to follow him, stretching unnaturally in the flickering candlelight. He entered, slamming the door shut behind him, shutting out the world for a moment.
He leaned against the door, his breathing heavy and erratic, as the weight of his fractured identity threatened to crush him. The memories, fleeting and violent, clashed with his own. Amon's laughter, his mother's touch, his father's eyes. The image of a hand reaching for him from a grave, dirt falling onto his face.
Jack pushed himself away from the door, his hands trembling. He staggered across the room, feeling the walls closing in on him, the air thickening like tar. It was too much. The letter, the confrontation, the sudden rush of memories—he couldn't keep up. His thoughts felt jagged, shards of glass swirling in his mind. His fingers tightened into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.
The letter.
Jack reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the crumpled edges. He pulled it out, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the words. "Within you lies a power that must never awaken." The words, so simple, yet so suffocating. The ink seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, as if mocking him.
"Power," Jack whispered under his breath, the word tasting bitter. He let the letter fall from his fingers, watching it drift to the ground like a dying leaf. The sound of it landing on the cold floor was like a slap, echoing through the silence of the room.
For a moment, nothing changed. The room was still. The candlelight flickered. And then—then the air shifted.
A chill ran through the room, cold enough to raise the hairs on the back of Jack's neck. It wasn't a normal chill. No draft, no windows open, just an unnatural coldness that seeped into his bones. He froze, his breath catching in his throat as something stirred within the room.
The floor beneath him seemed to hum, a vibration so faint that Jack wondered if he imagined it. But the cold was real. Too real.
He reached out, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself. But as his fingers brushed the wood, the world around him seemed to warp. The edges of his vision blurred, pulling away from the center like a broken mirror. Time felt… wrong. Slower. The air thickened, thick as smoke, and yet, Jack could breathe without difficulty. It was as if the space itself was bending, curving into something else entirely.
Jack's breath hitched. His eyes darted around the room, but nothing made sense anymore. The familiar space he had known all his life—his sanctuary—was dissolving. It was like a dream, but not the comforting kind. This felt wrong. It felt dangerous.
He stumbled back, but his foot caught on something. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud, pain shooting up his side. But he barely noticed it. He couldn't look away.
The room was shifting. The walls were moving. The floor beneath him trembled, the wooden planks warping and bending in impossible directions. Jack's heart raced. What the hell was happening?
And then it appeared.
A mist. Thin at first, a faint tendril curling up from the floor. It seemed to grow, rippling across the room like a living thing. Jack couldn't take his eyes off it. The mist was not of this world. It shimmered, a sickly, fractured light pulsing from within it, the colors twisted and broken. His breath quickened as it filled the space, thickening, wrapping around him like a suffocating fog.
He pushed himself to his feet, staggering away from the growing mist. But it was everywhere now. Filling the room, pressing in from every direction.
His vision blurred even further as he stumbled, disoriented, into the center of the room. The air was colder now, impossibly cold, like a deathly chill that seeped into his marrow. He gasped, but the cold didn't stop.
"Stop," Jack whispered to himself. But the word was meaningless in the face of whatever this was. The mist twisted around him, folding in on itself, swirling like an endless abyss. It was alive. He could feel it. The whispers.
"Jack…"
The voice was soft, barely audible, yet it reached him clearly. It was a voice he didn't recognize. A voice that seemed to echo from somewhere distant, somewhere otherworldly.
"Amon," the voice whispered again, this time louder. "Amon, you are not Jack."
Jack's heart skipped a beat. He froze, his mind reeling. Amon. The name. It wasn't his. It shouldn't be his. It couldn't be.
The mist seemed to pulse in response, the fog shifting around him like a living thing. The air grew thicker, heavier. Jack's body trembled under the weight of something—some force—pressing in on him. His thoughts scattered, desperate to make sense of the intrusion, but nothing made sense.
The voice returned, louder, more insistent. "Embrace who you are, Amon. You cannot deny it. You are Amon. You were always Amon."
Jack's mind screamed for control, but it was slipping through his fingers like water.
"No," he whispered, his throat dry, raw. "I'm Jack. I'm Jack."
But the voice didn't listen. "You are Amon, and power lies within you."
Power.
Amon's memories surged again—fragmented images flashing before his eyes. A warm hand on his shoulder. A smile. A tear running down a mother's face. A voice, calling his name. But there was something wrong with these memories. They were incomplete, broken, like they had been torn apart, edited.
Jack reached up to his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. "Stop," he gasped. "Stop it, please."
But the mist didn't stop. It grew, pressing in closer, suffocating him. It was offering him something. Power. Control. But what would he lose in return?
"Amon," the voice repeated, colder now, as if mocking him. "You can feel it, can't you? The power. You're stronger than you realize."
Jack shook his head violently, as if trying to shake off the words. But they stuck, digging into him, burrowing deep within his mind. He could feel the weight of the Mist's power, its hunger for him. The tether that was slowly, imperceptibly, pulling at him.
A shudder ran through him as the mist began to retreat, slowly, like a tide pulling away from the shore. Jack gasped for air, his chest heaving as the fog receded, but the chill lingered. He felt… different. Changed.
As the last tendrils of the Mist disappeared, Jack collapsed to his knees, sweat dripping down his face. His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic rhythm he couldn't control.
He closed his eyes, but all he saw were images of Amon—flashes of memories that weren't his own but felt like they were. He could feel the tether. The Mist had left something behind. A part of itself had latched onto him.
Jack opened his eyes, looking around the room, trying to steady himself. The air was still thick with something he couldn't name. His hands shook as he pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. The letter. He had to know more.
But he felt something else. Something more terrifying.
He wasn't alone.
Outside the Mist, Jack could feel it. The pressure, the weight of unseen eyes upon him. There was something—or someone—watching him from beyond the veil, from somewhere far outside the Mist. It wasn't just the Mist anymore. Whatever else was out there was aware of him. Aware of what he had just done.
He couldn't explain it, but the feeling settled deep in his gut. His every instinct screamed at him that something was coming. The Mist hadn't gone unnoticed. Neither had Jack.
As the final traces of the fog dissipated into the air, Jack's chest tightened. He staggered backward, gripping the desk to keep himself steady. The final line of the letter echoed in his mind, the words mocking him:
"Within you lies a power that must never awaken."
But it was already too late, or is it?