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    For a moment, I could’ve sworn I saw him—Death—lounging against his black-and-yellow checkered cab, one eyebrow arched in faint, amused curiosity.


    As the car spun, the world around me blurred into a violent whirl—lights streaking into abstract lines, the screech of metal twisting into something distant. Time stretched, each heartbeat an eternity, and in the chaos, an eerie calm settled over everything, like the silence before a storm breaks. A memory surfaced, unbidden: her face was warm and full of life. My little Sarah. Her laugh rang out, pure and bright, cutting through the darkness, anchoring me with a kindness I hadn’t felt in years.


    She stood there, so close I could almost reach out and touch her, her gaze full of that same peaceful certainty she’d always had, like she held a secret no one else knew. She looked at me, her expression calm, and whispered three simple words.


    “Not yet, dad.”


    A warmth spread through me, filling every inch of the void that had been tearing me down. Her voice faded, but the certainty lingered, pulling me back. Pain surged through my chest, sharp and insistent, my lungs dragging in air as if for the first time. The roar of the world came rushing back, cold and relentless, and I found myself gasping, gripping the edge of reality with everything I had. The fleeting cold of death—that long kiss goodnight—dissolved, replaced by the sharp, unforgiving crush of reality.


    I wasn’t gone. Not yet.


    Footsteps echoed behind me, slow and deliberate. Darkness chewed at the edges of my vision, gnawing tendrils clawing into my thoughts. Hands yanked me out of the wreckage, my mind flickering like a faulty light—and then there was the hard, bone-rattling crack at the base of my skull. Oblivion fell like a hammer.


    I didn’t dream. Just sank into the darkness, heavy and absolute, wrapping around me like the depths of a deep, cold river. There was a strange comfort in that—an unfeeling black where pain couldn’t reach, where nothing lingered to claw at the edges of my mind. Just the kind of quiet numb you don’t appreciate until it’s the only mercy left.


    I came to with the bitter tang of iron in my mouth, the damp stink of dust choking my senses. My wrists were bound behind my back, the rope biting into raw skin, each twist digging deeper. The place was a warehouse-turned-storage—crates and containers piled up like secrets nobody wanted to keep. Because, naturally, it had to be a warehouse. After the War, the city was crawling with these abandoned military relics, perfect for shady dealings, desperate schemes, and the kind of bad decisions that always seemed to follow me around. The place was a crypt—dim and cavernous, lit by a handful of bulbs strung from above, swaying gently, casting shadows that moved like specters. Frank lay slumped on a crate across the way, maybe fifty paces out. Even from here, he looked like he’d been through a personal hell. Worse than me, if that was possible.


    A groan beside me pulled my attention. Aylin. She was coming around, eyes fluttering as she fought her way back from whatever darkness had taken her. Her feet were bound in rope, her hands locked behind her in cold steel cuffs.


    “Jack,” she croaked, voice barely more than a rasp, like she was scared even the air might hear her, “you still with me?”


    “Yeah, kid,” I muttered, shifting just enough to feel the agony bloom fresh in my ribs. A sharp stab reminded me the bleeding had stopped, but the damage was done. A few ribs cracked, head ringing like a busted church bell. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been dead.


    Aylin shifted closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her breaths shallow and shaky. The flickering light caught her face, and I saw the split lip, the bruise blooming across her cheek. We were a pair—bloodied, bruised, and on the wrong side of someone’s bad day. But we were breathing. That was something. I forced a grin, felt the dried blood crack on my lip.


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    The pointed echo of deliberate taps broke through the oppressive quiet of the warehouse. A slow rhythm: step, step, and the unmistakable click of a cane. Ol’ Killer Kane emerged from the shadows, the dim lights barely catching the sly grin twisting his lips. He was laying it on thick now. An arrogance that didn’t just border on delusion—it strolled right across, bought the souvenir mug and sent back a postcard that said, "Wish you weren''t here." He made his entrance like he owned not just the place, but every miserable soul inside it.


    “Jack,” Kane drawled, his eyes glittering like shards of broken glass—cold amusement, the kind a predator savors right before the kill. He always got like this when he was working, like every moment had to be a performance. It made me wonder, not for the first time, how we’d ever managed to get along. He was just so damn dramatic.


    I gave the ropes another tug, feeling the fibers cut deeper into the rawness of my wrists.


    “Kane,” I grunted, keeping my face as blank as I could. No need to give him the satisfaction of seeing the struggle.


    He smirked, drawing closer, each tap of his cane a clockwork countdown.


    “You never change,” he said, leaning in close, his breath cold against my ear, “always trying to act like you’re not afraid.” He reached down, plucking the key from my pant pocket. He turned it in his fingers, admiring the glint. “Not even hidden somewhere safe?”


    “The safest place is with the one person I trust,” I said.


    “Losing your edge, old friend. Or maybe you just didn’t want me to dig the location out of you, inch by inch?”


    "That key," I growled, forcing the words through clenched teeth. But he cut me off with a sharp crack—a line of fire blooming across my cheek from the slap of his cane. His eyes glinted, dark and mocking, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.


    "Oh, I know what this key is, and what it opens," he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "And I know Cat’s got the other half." He leaned in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "What I don''t know is how you ended up tangled with this viper."


    His gaze drifted lazily to Aylin, his grin widening like a man savoring a particularly bloody cut of steak. "Tell me, darling, does he even know what''s really on the line, or did you just leave out the messy parts?"


    Aylin’s eyes flickered towards me, then dropped. “I was going to tell you,” she muttered, but it was like throwing chum to a shark. Kane chuckled, circling us, his cane tapping out a staccato that reverberated in the cavernous space.


    “Of course, of course,” he crooned, like a man comforting a child.


    "Kane, you''re an idiot if you think—" I started, but the words were cut short by a flash of movement. Aylin, slipping a pin from her braid, the metal catching a faint gleam in the dark. There was the smallest click—barely audible. I almost missed it. Kane didn’t.


    "Now that''s just rude," Kane said, tapping his cane against her shoulder with a cluck of disapproval, stopping her little escape trick mid-act. He stepped back, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Go on, sweetheart. Finish undoing your cuffs. I could use the entertainment."


    Aylin hesitated for a heartbeat, then shrugged. She didn''t need much convincing. With a flick of her wrist, the cuffs clattered to the ground, and the rope at her feet went slack. She gave Kane a sideways look as she stood and dusted off, lips curving into a smirk. "I was out of those ages ago. Just trying to fix my hair, you know."


    "So, what''s next? Gonna beat up an old cripple like me?" Kane taunted, a lazy grin curling his lips.


    "He''s a caster, Aylin. Be careful," I warned, my voice tight.


    She let out a small huff, almost amused. "I don''t usually like hurting people," she said, her gaze fixed on Kane, her eyes narrowing, "but I think I''m about to make an exception."


    Kane’s grin widened, but before she could respond, a blast of light erupted. A roaring flame took shape in his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent it spiraling straight at her.


    Aylin moved fast—faster than I expected—sidestepping the fire, her smirk never faltering.