I barely noticed the pain. My eyes darted around the room as if expecting something—or someone—to leap out of the shadows.
But there was only silence.
The phone's insistent Ring Ring cut through the stillness again, a jarring contrast to the surreal quiet that had wrapped around me moments ago. My hands trembled as I clutched the diary to my chest. The weight of it felt heavier now, as if the answers I sought were buried somewhere deep within its pages, mocking me.
I had questions. A thousand questions. About the diary. About her. About me.
But first, the phone.
I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to stand. The room felt smaller, darker, the walls pressing in on me. I could still feel the faint sting of the glowing seal, the faint imprint it had left behind on my skin. It wasn't just physical—there was something else, something inside me now.
Lost soul fragment absorbed.
The words whispered through my mind again, as if mocking me. What did it mean? Whose soul?
My fingers brushed over the diary's cover, and I hesitated. Maybe I should keep reading, find the answers before—
Ring Ring.
The sound grated against my nerves. My head snapped toward the phone, sitting innocuously on the old wooden table. It wasn't even my phone. I didn't recognize it. A relic from another time, a rotary model that looked like it belonged in a museum, not this life—or the last one.
I stepped toward it, each movement slow and deliberate. My mind raced. Who would be calling? What do they know about me—or Jack?
Memories—not mine, but Jack's—flickered through my mind. His mother, her laugh, her stern gaze, her absence. The father he never spoke of. And then the emptiness that filled the space where answers should have been.
My hand hovered over the receiver.
What if it's her?
The thought came unbidden, hitting me like a punch to the gut. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe she could still be out there somewhere, waiting, searching.
But deep down, I knew better.
I pulled my hand back, the fear of knowing outweighing the fear of not. Instead, I turned away, pacing the room, the sound of the ringing growing louder, more insistent.
Focus.
The old Jack—me, now, I guess—would have answers somewhere in this mess. I scanned the room, the diary clutched tightly in my hand. A flash of light caught my eye, drawing my attention to a small metallic object on the floor, half-hidden beneath a pile of discarded papers.
I bent down, picking it up. A key.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
Ring Ring.
The sound snapped me out of my thoughts. My grip tightened around the key as I turned back to the phone. I didn't have time for games. I needed answers.
This time, I didn't hesitate.
I crossed the room, grabbed the receiver, and brought it to my ear.
The phone's incessant ringing pierced through the heavy silence. I stood frozen, staring at it. My hands trembled, the faint glow of the tattoos still etched in my skin. The diary rested on the table, its strange markings still vivid in my mind. I wasn't ready, but the world didn't care.
Taking a deep breath, I snatched the phone from the receiver, pressing it to my ear.
"Hello?" I asked, my voice tentative, almost breaking.
There was a pause, the static on the line crackling ominously. Then came a voice, calm but firm, laced with a tension I couldn't place. "Jack?"
I hesitated. Was it safe to confirm? Could this person be trusted? "Who's asking?" I replied, my tone sharper than I intended.
The voice on the other end chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "Not your father, if that's what you were hoping for."
My grip on the phone tightened. "Who the hell are you?"
"Let's just say I'm... an old friend of your mother's." The voice was measured, deliberate. "We worked together. Closely."
A chill ran down my spine. "What do you mean, worked? She's just a—" I stopped myself. No, she wasn't just anything. Not anymore. The memories from the diary were jumbled, but they were clear on one thing: my mother was far more than she seemed.
"She didn't tell you, did she?" the voice asked, almost amused. "Of course not. It wasn't safe. Still isn't."
"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice rising despite the fear clawing at my chest. "What happened to her?"
The line went silent for a moment, and I thought they might have hung up. Then, the voice returned, softer this time. "Missing. Two weeks now."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Missing? My mother was gone?
"And you..." the voice continued, "you were supposed to be dead three weeks ago."
My breath caught. "What are you talking about? I'm right here."
"Yes," the voice replied, an edge of something—relief? Disbelief?—creeping in. "You are. Which is... unexpected."
I didn't know what to say. My mind raced, trying to piece together fragments of a puzzle I didn't even understand.
"Listen to me," the voice said, urgency seeping into their tone. "This line isn't secure. I don't have much time. Your father—he's been relocated. Under orders. Officially, he's acting as a liaison between Vought International and the government."
"Vought?" I echoed, my stomach turning. The name was familiar, a juggernaut of power and control, but why was my father involved with them?
"Unofficially," the voice continued, ignoring my interruption, "he's under scrutiny. Deep scrutiny. Your mother's doing, mostly. She made sure he was moved before..." The voice trailed off, as if considering how much to say.
"Before what?" I pressed, my pulse quickening.
A sigh crackled through the line. "Before you came back. Before everything changed."
"What does that even mean?" I shouted, frustration bubbling over. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"
Another pause. Then, with a tone so cryptic it sent shivers down my spine, the voice replied, "Survive, Jack. For now, just survive. And don't trust anyone—not even yourself."
The line went dead.
I stood there, the phone still pressed to my ear, the silence in the room almost deafening. My mind churned with questions, but no answers came. The diary lay open on the table, the strange symbols seeming to mock me. I looked at my hands, the faint glow of the tattoos flickering before fading completely.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
Knock Knock
The knock at the door came suddenly, sharp and demanding, cutting through the fog of my thoughts. I jumped, startled, and lost my balance, slipping on a stray piece of paper that had fallen to the floor amidst the chaos. I landed hard, my palms scraping against the cold, dusty surface as I looked around in dismay.
The house, once pristine and orderly, was now a mess. Papers were strewn across the floor, remnants of old meals sat abandoned on the table, and garbage had gathered in corners where it didn't belong. It was as if the walls themselves had absorbed the turmoil inside me, reflecting it back in every cluttered corner.
I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding, my gaze darting to the diary on the table. The knock came again, louder this time, more insistent.
Whoever was on the other side of the door was either impatient—or desperate.