The chase began slowly, almost deceptively so. Jack had always been a man who sought more—more out of life, more out of himself. He'd spent his youth waiting for something to wake him up, something to break the monotony.
It was a dream that had driven him, the thought that somewhere, hidden behind the walls of daily life, lay a truth that would make everything worth it. That truth, for Jack, was power. But it wasn't the kind of power most people thought of.
No, it was more primal, deeper. He wanted something that could warp the world, that could bend it to his will.
He found the whispers at the edge of a dream. They came in the dark, in fleeting moments between sleep and wakefulness. At first, they were nothing—just faint sensations of heat that crawled under his skin.
But as time passed, they solidified. They became clear, sharp. Voices. Dark, malevolent voices that fed into his thirst. He couldn't resist them. He chased them like a starving man pursuing a feast.
"Jack," the voice called one night, sharper than before, like nails scraping against wood. He felt the chill of it down his spine. "Jack, you're almost there."
Jack had never been a religious man, nor was he the superstitious type, but the way the voice resonated with him—how it felt so real—brought something ancient to the surface of his mind. He could feel it, the power. A presence, ancient and waiting.
He followed it, down roads he knew, through paths he had walked a thousand times before. But something was different now.
The streets felt colder, the air thicker. He stepped into a fog that clung to his legs, wrapped itself around his feet like a heavy, suffocating blanket. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The voice pushed him, drove him forward.
At first, it was small things. The air would shift with a flicker of his thoughts, things would break, but always just out of sight. The world bending slightly in his direction. It was a rush, an undeniable power that stirred within him like a storm ready to erupt.
"Where are you, Jack?" the voice asked one evening. It was closer now, no longer in the distance. The whispers had turned into commands. "You feel it now, don't you? The power in you?"
"Yes," Jack said, his throat dry. "I feel it."
"You will break them. All of them."
Jack hesitated for only a moment. He had always been taught that power came with responsibility, that it was something to be respected, not coveted. But those thoughts quickly crumbled in the face of the rush, in the way the world yielded before him like wet clay.
A man passed him on the street, carrying a box under his arm. Without thinking, Jack extended his hand. The man froze in his tracks. His body began to tremble, his eyes wide with terror, as though he knew something was wrong but couldn't stop it.
"Let go," Jack muttered. The man's fingers twitched as the box slid from his grasp and crashed to the ground.
Jack grinned, a strange satisfaction pulling at his lips. The man stumbled backward, looking at him as though Jack had just walked out of some nightmare.
"What... What did you do?" the man whispered, shaking his head. "What the hell—"
Before the words finished leaving his mouth, the air seemed to snap. The man's body crumpled in a slow, agonizing motion. His limbs jerked out of control, as if they were being torn by invisible strings.
Jack could see the veins pulsing in the man's neck, his mouth opened in silent scream. And then, with a sickening snap, the man's body folded inward. The sound was like bones splintering under pressure.
Jack stepped back, feeling nothing but a strange satisfaction. The power within him surged again, crackling with raw energy. He could feel it, burning, aching, stretching deep within. His heart pounded.
"What was that?" he murmured to himself, though he knew the answer.
The voice laughed, low and harsh. "You are becoming more than you ever were. Embrace it, Jack. You're almost there."
Weeks passed, and with each day, Jack grew stronger. The world bent more easily for him. He walked into stores, and things would break around him—jars would shatter, lights would flicker out, glass would crumble. People would back away from him, frightened, without understanding why.
He'd smile, feeling the pulse of the power, the whispers urging him forward. There were no more questions. No more doubts. The chase had consumed him completely.
Then, one night, after walking for what felt like hours through the cold streets, Jack found himself at the old house at the end of the road.
It had always been abandoned, falling apart at the seams, but tonight it stood before him, glowing with a strange, unnatural light. The door creaked open as though waiting for him.
Inside, the walls seemed to breathe. There was a thick presence here, something ancient. His heart raced. The power inside him was so intense now that it made his head spin.
"Jack," the voice called again, but it wasn't the voice anymore. It was something else, something deeper, primal. "You're almost here. Just take the last step."
He hesitated. This wasn't what he had imagined. The whispers had been so sweet at first, so subtle. Now, they had become something darker. Something threatening.
But there was no turning back. Jack entered the house.
The floorboards groaned beneath his feet as he moved through the dark. Shadows clung to the corners, but they didn't feel like the shadows of a house. They felt like living things, watching him. The walls closed in around him, pressing in on him.
"Step into the center, Jack," the voice coaxed.
He stepped forward, toward the center of the room, where an altar stood. It was stone, ancient, covered in symbols he couldn't understand.
His pulse quickened, and his hands began to tremble. The power inside him roared like a beast, demanding release. He could feel it now, boiling beneath the surface, ready to destroy.
"Do it," the voice urged. "Take the final step, and you will become everything."
Jack reached for the stone, his fingers brushing against it. The moment he touched it, the ground trembled. The air thickened.
Then, it happened. The house seemed to fold in on itself. The walls cracked open, the ceiling collapsed, the windows shattered. The ground beneath his feet split apart. The power—he could feel it all around him, swirling, consuming. He was no longer in control. It was too much.
"NO!" Jack screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the earth itself, as the house—no, the world—broke apart.
He tried to move, to run, but his body wouldn't obey. His legs buckled beneath him. He fell to the ground, his mind screaming for release, for escape. But it was too late. The power that had once promised him greatness had turned on him, consumed him whole.
Jack's skin began to tear apart, as though the very air around him was too thick, too crushing. He screamed, his mouth opening but unable to make a sound. His limbs twisted unnaturally. His body folded into itself like the man on the street.
And in that moment, Jack realized too late that he had never been chasing power. He had been chasing his own destruction.
The ground shook one last time, and the world was torn apart.
Nothing was left of Jack. Nothing except the faintest trace of power, lingering in the ruins of what had been.