Chapter Text
⠀⠀"Nobody... is coming to save me," Jacket thought, his body slumped against the cold, weathered surface of an antique writing table. His breath came in shallow, erratic gasps, each one more difficult than the last, as if the very act of drawing air through his lungs was a fight he was losing. His chest burned, his vision blurred, and a dull throb pulsed from his abdomen. His stomach felt like it had been twisted inside out, a searing agony radiating from the gaping wound there. Blood soaked his torn shirt, the crimson pooling beneath him, a stark contrast to the aged wood of the table. The warm wetness spread, sticky and unforgiving, a constant reminder of his rapidly failing body.
⠀⠀The table he pressed against, once used to write the final blackmail letters sent from this nameless group to the 50 Blessings organization, now felt like the last tether holding him to consciousness. Those letters had contained the damning truths capable of unraveling the very society 50 Blessings had so carefully built, but they had also sealed Jacket’s fate. This was supposed to be their end, the end of the masked murderers—their last, fatal act.
⠀⠀Not long ago, the group had been here, moving freely through these same rooms, demanding money from 50 Blessings and threatening to expose their entire operation—names, faces, locations. They planned to bring their twisted cause into the light, to destroy the organization’s carefully crafted facade. But everything fell apart before the storm could hit. Before the truth was revealed, before the final act played out, Jacket received an automated message through his vintage receiver. It was vague, reckless, a command to stir chaos, to make headlines. But it was meaningless, without purpose or direction.
⠀⠀He knew what to do, though. He always did.
⠀⠀Jacket had stayed loyal to the group, bound by something he couldn’t explain, even as doubts gnawed at him. What if the threats in those letters were more than just blackmail? What if they really knew the truth about 50 Blessings? The idea was intoxicating—like holding the secrets to the entire world, a map to his forgotten past, even his own name. But Jacket knew better than to chase such illusions. Everything now was life or death. There were risks no one should be foolish enough to take, and he wasn't about to lose his head over this.
⠀⠀It was blackmail in its purest form—an empty threat to expose the truth, or at least a distorted version of it. The media would twist it, of course. Journalists always did. They’d turn it into a spectacle, distorting the facts to feed the insatiable hunger for sensationalism.
⠀⠀It always came down to money.
⠀⠀Jacket’s mind should have been sharp—always, in a job where every second meant the difference between life and death. But his thoughts were clouded, drifting in and out of focus, like a hazy fog. Every breath he took seemed like a battle against the overwhelming tide of pain and exhaustion. He couldn’t help but wonder, as the blood pooled around him, what Rasmus would think of this—his pathetic end. Would he laugh, mock him for his weakness? Jacket didn’t want to know. Not now. Not when the pain was so raw, so constant, gnawing at the edges of his fading consciousness.
⠀⠀Jacket's hand instinctively moved to clutch at his bleeding stomach, but the effort left him nauseous. His hand, slick with his own blood, trembled as he tried to steady himself. His body had begun to shut down, muscles stiffening, limbs heavy and unresponsive, but still he forced himself to move—dragging himself away from the desk, scraping his body across the floor. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through him, his mind dizzy, disoriented. His body protested with every inch, but he pressed on, driven by a faint, stubborn will to survive—if only to escape the place where death seemed inevitable.
⠀⠀⠀He was dying.
⠀⠀The thought kept repeating, an undeniable truth no matter how hard he fought against it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀This was it. The end. He was sure of it.
⠀⠀Each breath felt like it might be his last, but still, he crawled. Every movement was a struggle. Every second was an eternity. But Jacket wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦ ┄┄ ･ ❛ ❁ ❜ ･ ┄┄ ✦
⠀⠀⠀*BEEP.*
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"You have 1 new message. 3:24 PM."
⠀⠀"Hey, it’s me, Layla from LabCorp,"
⠀⠀"We’ve got the quite sick patient checked in today, and I need you to fill in for me. Could you please take care of him? I’m out sick myself, and you’ll be compensated. Come to 53rd Street, west of Ocean Ave, the underground facility? You know the one, thanks!"
⠀⠀⠀*BEEP.*
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"No new messages."
⠀⠀Meanwhile, Biker scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, muscles groaning in protest as he stretched. He tossed the phone onto the cluttered counter, frowning. LabCorp? That was new.
⠀⠀'Layla’s' cryptic message replayed in his mind, her voice soft yet eerily detached. Nothing new. A "reward" for taking care of a patient? The thought was laughable. Saving people wasn’t his trade. His world revolved around blood, violence, and taking. He didn’t give—not mercy, not kindness, not salvation.
⠀⠀He scanned the dimly lit room, the aftermath of the previous night’s chaos sprawled out like a grim still life. The carpet was a patchwork of bloodstains and scattered detritus: pill bottles, empty syringes, and bags of powder. The neon lights buzzed faintly, casting an eerie glow over the glass tables, now cracked and sticky with spilled liquor. The leather couches bore the scars of the night—deep gouges, smeared blood, and jagged holes.
⠀⠀In the corners, bodies lay like discarded dolls, too strung out to move. Their pale faces were slack, eyes unfocused as they stared at nothing. Their breaths rasped unevenly, barely audible over the muffled thrum of heavy metal still reverberating through the walls. The bass pounded faintly in Biker’s chest, but it was drowned out by the acrid stench of sweat, smoke, and the sickly-sweet tang of leftover booze.
⠀⠀It was a scene he knew all too well: a cocktail of euphoria and despair that always ended the same way. Nights like this began with reckless abandon, fueled by a desperation to outrun pain, only to dissolve into shattered illusions and guttural cries. The group had fed on each other’s decay, spiraling deeper into their collective ruin, as though destruction was the only solace they could find.
⠀⠀But something about last night was worse. What started as their usual chaos—an unholy blend of intoxication, sex, and violence—had tipped into something feral. The room had become a battlefield, the air electric with primal rage. The laughter had curdled into screams, the music into a cruel symphony of shrill cries and guttural snarls. Blood pooled in dark corners, the only evidence of their savage frenzy.
⠀⠀By morning, the room was a tomb. Bodies lay twisted and smeared with dirt, their breaths shallow and rattling. The stink of regret hung heavy, but Biker waded through it with cold detachment. He felt nothing. This wasn’t new. It was just another cycle of destruction in a world where every indulgence eventually became a weapon.
⠀⠀"I’ll deal with them later," he muttered, the words flat and insincere. He’d said it a thousand times before, knowing he never would. Compassion wasn’t his game. The weak disgusted him, their eyes hollow, their cries pathetic. It was easier to let them rot than waste a shred of effort pretending he cared.
⠀⠀He turned toward the bedroom, shadows from the blinds stretching like jagged bars across the floor. There, tangled in the sheets, lay a woman whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask. Her fiery red hair spilled across the hot pink pillowcase. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, her dusky skin etched with faint scars—silent witnesses to battles long since lost. Biker’s eyes brushed over them without curiosity. Her history didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Just another fleeting distraction in a life full of them.
⠀⠀Shoving the thought aside, he rifled through his dresser, pulling out his work clothes with mechanical precision. His eyes lingered on the pink vest for a moment, its vibrant hue almost mocking in the dim light. It stood out against the stained and battered fabric surrounding it—a relic of something he didn’t dare define. After a quick, ice-cold shower, he stepped out into the morning air, the chill slicing through his damp skin, exposing the scars that mapped his body like a twisted tapestry of survival.
⠀⠀He grabbed his cassette player and keys from the cluttered counter, their familiar weight anchoring him as he locked the door behind him.
⠀⠀Outside, the sun was a faint and distant ghost, struggling to break through the dense morning fog that hung heavy over the city. Its light fractured across the cracked pavement, carving uneven shadows that stretched and twisted like forgotten memories.
⠀⠀His motorcycle rumbled to life beneath him, the engine’s low growl shattering the oppressive silence of the deserted streets. He revved it hard, letting the vibrations rattle through his bones—a visceral reminder that he was still here, still moving forward, even if he didn’t always feel it.
⠀⠀As the bike roared into motion, the sharp tang of gasoline mixed with the icy air, the wind clawing at his face like a thousand invisible blades. The cold stung, but he welcomed it. Pain was better than the emptiness. Pain was proof that he was still alive.
⠀⠀The address burned in his mind, looping endlessly like the broken cassette tape he kept close: 53rd Street, west of Ocean Avenue. An underground facility. The instructions had been maddeningly vague: "Take care of him."
⠀⠀Killing was easy—second nature. He didn’t blink at the sound of a gunshot or the feel the weight of his blades in his hands. Death was routine, a symphony of lifeless thuds and cold finality. But helping? That was uncharted territory.
⠀⠀The city was suffocated by a dense fog, its once-vivid landscape muted into a swirling haze of gray shadows and hushed neons. The streets blurred around him as he rode, yet doubt clung to him, gnawing at his resolve with every mile. Why him? Why not someone kinder, someone who might give a damn? But 50 Blessings hadn’t chosen anyone else. They’d chosen him.
⠀⠀His jaw tightened, forcing the thoughts aside. Questions didn’t matter. They never did. Orders were orders—clear, unyielding. He’d show up, do what needed to be done, and move on. That was the way it worked. The only way it worked.
⠀⠀And yet, the unease lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind, a sharp splinter he couldn’t ignore.
⠀⠀Whatever awaited him at the end of this road wouldn’t be just another job. It never really was.