Jordan Robberts had been sitting on the toilet for the past thirty minutes, legs spread, elbows resting on his thighs, completely engrossed in his phone. He'd finished his business a while ago—at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but the algorithm had him in a chokehold. Snapchat, with its uncanny ability to serve up precisely the kind of absurd, gut-busting videos he loved, had him suppressing snickers that nearly echoed off the tiled walls. He bit his lip, shaking slightly, his stomach clenching as he tried to stifle another wheeze. The last thing he needed was to be the guy cackling alone in the office bathroom.
A few stalls down, another pair of shoes remained planted on the floor—a quiet, unknown coworker, equally engaged in his own private ritual. Jordan had no idea who it was, and he wasn't about to make it weird by breaking the unspoken rule of restroom anonymity. He figured if the roles were reversed and he heard some random dude wheezing over his phone while he was mid-squat, he'd probably pinch it off and leave, mortified. Though he knew he was no upstanding citizen of polite professionalism. He and his crew of guys were a bunch of immature jokesters.
Eventually, responsibility nudged at the back of his mind. He sighed, locked his phone, and braced himself to stand. The moment he pushed up from the seat, his knees wobbled, and his stomach lurched as a wave of cold numbness rippled down his legs. A deep, unsettling absence of sensation blanketed his feet and ankles, and for a split second, he wondered if he'd lost them entirely.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, gripping the stall divider for balance.
He took a careful step forward, but his feet felt like hollow blocks of wood, utterly detached from his body. He had no choice but to trust that they were still positioned correctly beneath him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a paranoid thought surfaced: What if my bones aren't lined up right? What if I step down wrong and they just snap like twigs? He swallowed, pushing the ridiculous image of his ankle crumbling to dust out of his head, and shuffled forward with all the grace of a newborn deer.
By some miracle, he made it to the sink without face-planting. As he scrubbed his hands under the lukewarm water, the dreaded pins-and-needles sensation began creeping back into his legs—slow at first, then building to that unbearable, static-like prickle. He winced, flexing his toes inside his boots as he speed-walked back toward the maintenance shop on the ground floor, his movements stiff and robotic.
By the time he collapsed into his chair at the workbench, the full-force agony of reawakening nerves hit him like a freight train. He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose, determined to play it cool. The last thing he needed was for Darren to notice. If his buddy caught wind of the fact that Jordan was temporarily paralyzed from the knees down, he wouldn't hesitate to grab the armrests of his rolling chair and spin him like a carnival ride, just to be an asshole.
Jordan leaned back in his chair, keeping his legs completely still as he scrolled absentmindedly through his phone, half-listening to the usual chatter of the maintenance shop. The air was thick with the scent of oil, grease, and stale coffee—just another day in the Engineering Department.
Darren was slouched at the workbench, disassembling a pump motor, while Clarke and Chris debated over whether the breakroom coffee maker was truly garbage, or if "someone" was just too lazy to clean it. The dynamic between the four of them had settled into an easy rhythm—each of them had their quirks, their strengths, their history.
For Jordan, this job was easy, almost mindless. After thirteen years in the field, bouncing from base to base, station to station, nothing in the electrical trade could really throw him off anymore. He'd seen it all—fried panels from idiots who didn't lock out breakers, contractors cutting corners, facilities held together with more wishful thinking than actual maintenance. Compared to the chaos of his earlier years, this was comfortable.
His mind drifted, as it often did when he wasn't actively engaged in a task. Back to those younger years.
September 11th. Sixth grade. The world had cracked open that day, exposing something dark and terrifying that he hadn't fully understood at the time. The fear of a draft, of being thrown into a war he wasn't ready for, loomed over him like an unspoken threat in those teenage years. That fear eventually turned into a strange inevitability—when he graduated high school, directionless and restless. Jordan was a worker… outside of that he had no plans. However, plans found him.
At just 18, Jordan stood before the judge, unflinching, unrepentant. He had hurt someone—hurt them so badly they would never be whole again. And he was glad.
The man he brutalized had once been a friend, someone he had trusted. Jimmy. Charismatic, friendly, the kind of guy everyone liked. He had even been dating Jordan's sister, Sarah. For a while, it seemed like a good match. Until the day Sarah came home broken—her face swollen and bloodied, her spirit shattered. She didn't have to say much. Jordan knew. The trust she had placed in Jimmy had been twisted into something monstrous.
And Jordan refused to let that stand.
He hadn't denied a thing. In the courtroom, he recounted the encounter with an almost eerie detachment. How he hunted Jimmy down. How he beat him senseless, crushed his arm in the struggle, then, when Jimmy lay helpless, took his time destroying him. He stomped his knees until they were ruined, bones splintered beyond repair. Jimmy would never walk again. And Jordan? He felt no guilt. Only satisfaction.
Jimmy was convicted of rape. But that didn't absolve Jordan. His attack had been relentless, calculated. His defense argued it was a crime of passion, a brother protecting his sister. But his lack of remorse, the cold precision of his actions, made it clear—this hadn't been a moment of blind rage. It had been a decision.
The verdict came with a choice: five years in prison or ten years in the military. Jordan weighed his options quickly and chose the military. The judge asked which branch, but Jordan said it didn't matter to him. He would go wherever he was told. The judge approved and sent him into the U.S. Coast Guard, calling it an opportunity to serve, to save lives rather than destroy them.
Jordan said nothing. He knew what he had done. He would never forget. But this was a reset—structure, purpose, movement. A way to keep going. Because standing still in a prison cell had never been an option. So, off he went into his sentenced future.
Every few years, he'd pack up and move, drop into a new command, and start the process over again—learning the ropes, keeping his head down, figuring out what was expected of him. He had chosen to become an Electrician's Mate, working on anything electrical that fell in his scope of responsibility. Usually, within a year of being at a new place, he'd become the go-to guy, the one people turned to when things broke down and repairs were needed. There was a quiet satisfaction in that, in knowing that even when everything else shifted around him, his work—his ability to solve problems—remained solid.
It was a pattern he'd developed long before the military, even back when he was just a kid grinding through dead-end jobs. The cycle was always the same: work hard, do more than his fair share, watch everyone else coast by, and let the frustration build until it boiled over.
The explosions were legendary.
Jordan didn't consider himself an angry guy, not really. For the most part, he kept his mouth shut, didn't make waves. He let the little things slide. Until he couldn't. It always took about a year and a half, maybe two years, before the resentment calcified into something unshakable. It would always end the same way—a confrontation, words he could never take back, and a set of keys hurled against a wall with enough force to dent drywall. The keys… those damn keys.
Every job he'd ever had, he somehow ended up with a set of them. Maybe that was the universe's way of giving him something tangible to throw when it all went south. It had become almost ritualistic—his final act of defiance before storming out the door. Fuck you, I quit. A phrase spoken with the weight of months, sometimes years, of pent-up frustration.
He could still remember the look on his last boss's face, red and flustered, when he'd done it the final time before the assault. He'd been standing there, keys loaded in his hand, practically vibrating with fury as he laid into the guy—pointing, cussing, tearing into every flaw, every bit of incompetence he'd let slide for too long. And then, with a sharp clack, the keys hit the wall, bouncing once before landing unceremoniously on the tile floor.
He had stormed out, his heart hammering, his skin hot, but the second he got into his car, he felt it—the quiet vacuum of regret. Not because he'd quit. No, that part was always inevitable. But because he never seemed to figure out how to handle it better. His father would have.
His dad was the kind of man who handled problems in the moment. There was no build-up, no boiling point. He nipped things in the bud the second they started. Jordan had spent his whole life watching him navigate the world with a firm, unwavering confidence—calling people out, taking control of situations before they spiraled. His mother, on the other hand, was the opposite. She was warmth, patience, quiet resilience. She put everyone else's needs before her own, offering kindness where his father offered strength and accountability.
And Jordan? Jordan was somewhere in between. He could hold his tongue, tolerate the bullshit—for a while. But when he finally snapped, it was pure fire.
"You look deep in thought, Robberts."
Darren's voice cut through the fog of memory, dragging Jordan back to the present. He blinked, shaking off the haze, and turned toward his coworker, who was now standing with his arms crossed, a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Or," Darren continued, "you're still trying to feel your feet and don't wanna admit it."
Jordan exhaled through his nose, giving a half-hearted smirk. "Don't even think about it."
"Do what?" Darren scoffed. Then… he did it. He sprinted over and shook Jordan's legs back and forth, surging the prickling in his feet to new heights.
Jordan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, laughing and almost crying at the same time, "FUCK!"
A few minutes passed and it had finally subsided. That one lasted a long time.
"How'd you know?" Jordan asked his buddy.
"Dude, you were power-walking back in here like you just walked past a pack of feral dogs."
Clarke chuckled from the other side of the shop. "Yeah, man. You looked like you were either in excruciating pain or trying really hard not to shit yourself."
Jordan shook his head with a chuckle. "Fuck y'all."
Darren clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's why you love us."
Jordan snorted, finally standing up and rolling out his shoulders. The static had finally left his legs, replaced with the dull ache of returning circulation. Another day, another round of ball-busting.
This wasn't a bad gig. It wasn't exciting, but it was steady, predictable—something he had control over. For Jordan, the Coast Guard had been more than just a job—it had been a perfect system, a structured cycle that kept him moving forward, kept him from stagnating. He had a pattern: he'd get stationed somewhere, work his ass off, earn his qualifications, and by the time the monotony and frustrations started creeping in—when the bureaucracy, the inefficiencies, and the same faces day in and day out began to wear on his patience—he'd already be counting down the days to his next transfer. That knowledge, the inevitable change on the horizon, acted as a pressure release valve. It dulled the edge of his anger, allowed him to navigate workplace frustrations with a little more grace, kept him from burning bridges. After all, what was the point of getting into it with someone when, in a few months, he'd be gone anyway?
This cycle had carried him through years of service, station after station, new people, new skills, fresh starts. It was a life that had shaped him, hardened him, and by the time he was thirty-five, he had become the kind of man who thrived in movement. He was six-foot-one, 212 pounds of solid, compact muscle—a build that defied expectations. He never looked as heavy as he actually was, and that always got a laugh out of his buddies during weigh-ins. They'd shake their heads in disbelief when he stepped on the scale, expecting a number far lower than what appeared. Jordan wasn't bulky in the way some guys were, the ones who lived in the gym and wanted everyone to know it. His strength was more subtle, packed into his frame with the kind of density that caught people off guard.
He liked to joke about it. "I'm a turd that drops straight to the bottom of the bowl, no floating," he'd say, grinning at the groans of disgust that followed. If they didn't like that one, he'd switch it up: "I'm dense, like a neutron star." That one usually earned him blank stares. He'd try to explain, talking about collapsed stellar cores and extreme gravitational forces, but by the time he finished, any potential humor had evaporated. He'd learned to just let the joke die. He still used it in the hopes that one day someone would give him a true laugh.
Physically, mentally, even professionally—Jordan was solid as an adult. Experienced. Capable. In his mind, he was in his prime, the best version of himself. And yet, for all that he had built, there was one thing missing, the one thing that gnawed at him in quiet moments, in the spaces between jobs, in the silence of his empty place at night.
A woman. A partner.
Relationships had never been his strong suit. There had been girlfriends over the years, some lasting a handful of weeks, others stretching into months, but none had ever turned into something lasting. He was used to temporary things—temporary units, temporary friendships, temporary attachments. But for the last three years, there had been one exception, one woman who had lingered in his mind far longer than he had expected. Her name was Alex Jones; a raven-haired beauty whose uniform hid the flawless form beneath. She was a workout fanatic and if you ever caught her in civilian clothes you'd do a double take if you knew her from work.
Of course, he knew her full name was Alexandria, but no one ever called her that. She had this effortless confidence about her, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward her, and Jordan had been no exception. During the first two years at his current unit, he had played it safe, keeping things in the realm of workplace acquaintances, then casual friendship. He had learned early on that romance in the military was a tricky landscape to navigate, littered with rules and restrictions that varied depending on the unit, the leadership, and the chain of command. Technically, he and Alex weren't violating any hard regulations—he worked in maintenance under a warrant officer, part of the facilities engineering team, while she was in logistics, reporting up through a Senior Chief. Different departments, different command structures. Close enough to cross paths, but distant enough that no one could officially tell them "no." Still, they both kept it pretty hush-hush. Nothing was ever a problem… until it was.
Office gossip had a way of spreading like wildfire, and even though they weren't sneaking around, they had been more careful than needed. There was an unspoken agreement between them, a mutual understanding that whatever this was—whatever it might turn into—had to be handled with discretion.
That wasn't the hard part. The hard part was Alex herself. She was never fully in, never fully out.
They had been out together a handful of times over the past year, and every time, it had been easy. Comfortable. She laughed at his jokes, met his banter with sharp comebacks, and leaned in just close enough to make him wonder if she wanted more. But then, the next day, she'd be distant again—not cold, just… neutral. Friendly, but not flirtatious. Warm, but not inviting. It was like every time they made a step forward, she pulled back before it could mean anything.
At first, he had taken it in stride. Maybe she was just feeling things out, unsure of what she wanted. But as the months stretched on, it became harder to ignore the possibility that she wasn't unsure—she was just not that interested.
So, he waited. Held back. Let her set the pace, let her decide what this was or wasn't going to be. Part of him wanted to push, to ask outright if she saw this going anywhere. The other part—the part that had spent years learning to let things roll off his back, to keep his expectations low and his attachments light—told him to step back, to see if she would come to him instead. He just wasn't sure how much longer he was willing to wait.
As much as Jordan wanted someone special in his life, he wasn't about to waste his time chasing after a woman who didn't want him back. Desire had to be mutual—anything less wasn't worth it to Jordan. He had too much self-respect to be some lovesick puppy, trailing behind a woman who couldn't even decide if she wanted to hold his leash. If that was the case, he'd rather be alone, biding his time until he met someone who actually saw him the way he wanted to be seen.
The thought lingered in his mind as the workday wound down. The hum of machinery had faded, the last-minute maintenance had been wrapped up, and the usual end-of-day ritual had begun—tools getting wiped down and returned to their proper places, the sharp scent of industrial cleaner mingling with the lingering musk of sweat and oil. The shop had that distinct sound of closure, boots scuffing against the concrete floor, lockers slamming shut, low chatter filtering through the air.
And, as expected, the conversation shifted to their evening plans.
"So what y'all thinking?" Darren asked, leaning against his workbench, arms crossed like he was making an important proposal. "Harry's tonight? Got two-for-one specials from eight to ten."
"Fuck Harry's, dude," Clarke scoffed immediately, shaking his head with disgust. "That place is ass."
Jordan smirked to himself as he coiled the test leads around his multimeter with practiced precision, taking his time before stowing it neatly in its protective case. He didn't need to jump into this debate; it was already unfolding exactly as he expected.
"No, it's not!" Darren shot back, clearly offended. "I like that place!" His tone carried the weight of someone defending his family's decades-old restaurant, as if Harry's was a sacred institution rather than a rundown bar with sticky floors and questionable clientele.
Chris, who had been quietly polishing off his own work, finally chimed in, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. "D," he began, his tone exasperated, "you ever stop to wonder why they're giving away two drinks for the price of one? Think about it. They'd be losing money—unless, of course, no one actually wants to drink there. So instead, they sling out cheap-ass liquor, slap a shiny little bow on it, and sell it to the dullards of this town like it's some kind of deal." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Harry's is ass."
Darren opened his mouth, but whatever comeback he had died before it even formed. The realization started to dawn on him, his expression shifting from defiant to betrayed as he turned toward Jordan, his last hope. "Come on, man… what do you think?"
Jordan finally looked up, slinging his tool bag over his shoulder. He let the moment hang for a beat, enjoying Darren's pleading expression before sighing. "Yeah… Harry's is ass," he admitted with a slow nod, as if he regretted having to break the news.
Darren groaned, exasperated. "Man, fuck all of you."
"However," Jordan continued with a grin, "we all know that's where we're going."
The group fell silent for a moment before, one by one, they all nodded in reluctant agreement. Because, as much as they loved to complain, as much as they called the place garbage, it was their garbage. And, like clockwork, they would find themselves right back at Harry's, sipping watered-down drinks, bitching about how terrible it was, and coming back the next week to do it all over again.
Jordan pulled into the parking lot of Harry's, cutting the engine of his truck as he spotted the familiar group of his coworkers standing outside the entrance. They weren't moving, just clustered around the doorway, heads tilted as they stared at something. Clarke was gesturing toward the door, his voice carrying over the evening air.
"Yep… knew this place was ass."
Jordan stepped up beside them and followed their gazes to the large, garish sign now hanging on the bar's front door.
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE—HEALTH CODE VIOLATIONS
It was hastily taped up, the edges curling as if it had been slapped on in a hurry. Jordan exhaled sharply through his nose. "That didn't take long."
Darren looked genuinely heartbroken, rubbing the back of his neck as he muttered, "Damn, man… I liked this place."
Chris gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. "Yeah? Well, enjoy your time off from food poisoning."
Jordan smirked but said nothing. Instead, he let the inevitable discussion play out—where to go next. It was a predictable cycle: half-hearted suggestions of lesser dive bars, immediate shot-downs from Clarke or Chris, and finally, the begrudging acceptance that they'd have to step out of their comfort zone.
"What about Suave?" Clarke finally suggested, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.
Darren groaned. "That bougie place across town? Man, that's where all the finance and admin folks go. They'd never lower themselves to be seen at Harry's."
"And now, neither can we," Chris pointed out, nodding toward the sign.
Jordan sighed, already resigned. "Screw it. Let's go to Suave."
As they piled into their vehicles and made the drive across town, Jordan couldn't help but scoff to himself at the name. Suave. Sounded more like a cheap bottle of body wash than a bar. When they arrived and stepped out of their trucks, he voiced exactly that.
"Suave, huh?" Jordan mused. "I swear I've seen this name on a bottle of shampoo."
The guys chuckled, and Clarke added, "Yeah… I mean it's a pretty big soap brand. I'm a little surprised you 'vaguely' know of it. I guess you don't bathe enough." Clarke laughed at his own joke as Jordan just stared unamused. "Shit, maybe they'll hand out free samples for you in the bathroom."
Jordan did have to crack a grin at that.
Chris perked up. "Oh, hell yeah, my hair's been feelin' kinda dry lately… my ass hair!"
That earned a round of laughter before they finally made their way inside.
The inside of Suave was about as different from Harry's as night and day. Dim lighting, sleek black tables, and polished wooden floors. The music was low, just enough to create an atmosphere but not enough to drown out conversation. A long bar stretched across one side, lined with high-end liquor bottles illuminated by soft golden backlighting. Servers in crisp black shirts weaved through the tables, carrying trays of drinks that didn't come in sticky plastic cups.
The guys found an open high-top near the back, settling onto the stools as a waitress came over to take their drink orders. Jordan ordered a cinnamon-flavored whiskey. It felt like the right kind of drink for a place like this… hoity-toity.
They had just started to relax when Darren suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing at something across the bar. "Hey… isn't that Alex?"
Jordan didn't look up right away. He took a deliberate sip of his drink, swallowed, and finally followed Darren's gaze.
There she was.
Alex Jones, the woman who had occupied far too much of his mind over the past few years, was across the room, seated with a group from logistics. And not just any group—one that included Chase.
Jordan felt his jaw tighten slightly. Chase was one of those guys who walked around like he was just a little bit better than everyone else, carrying himself with an air of self-importance. His job in Operations was apparently classified or some other nonsense, which only made him more insufferable to the lowly peons of the maintenance team at the large base where they worked. And right now, he had Alex's full attention.
Jordan didn't need to hear what they were saying. He could read it well enough—the way she leaned in when she laughed, the way Chase's hand brushed against her arm in a way that was just friendly enough to be deniable but deliberate enough to start the process of making a move… if he hadn't already.
Darren, still watching Jordan, cleared his throat. "You good, man?"
Jordan didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and signaled for the waitress.
"Another whiskey," he said.
And then, after a pause—
"Actually, make it two," Jordan corrected with zero emotion that Darren could detect.
Darren had always been good at reading people. It was a skill that had served him well, both in and out of uniform. And right now, as he sat at their high-top table, nursing a beer and watching the scene unfold across the bar, he was reading a situation he really wished he wasn't.
Alex wasn't just here with her logistics crew—she was with him. Comfortable. Loose. Laughing at Chase's jokes like he was the most charming bastard on earth. She leaned in just a little too much, touched his hand just a little too often. It wasn't the kind of interaction that could be brushed off as friendly. This was different. This was intentional.
Darren felt his stomach tighten as he turned his attention back to Jordan.
Jordan hadn't said a word. Hadn't even looked across the bar again after that first glance. But Darren knew he had seen her. Had taken in every detail, had processed it in that sharp, methodical way he always did.
The thing about Jordan was that most people only ever got the version of him he allowed them to see. He was friendly, sure—he joked around, shared drinks, shot the shit with the guys—but there was always a distance, a line no one was allowed to cross. Jordan controlled the narrative of who he was. He let people think they knew him, let them believe they had a window into his life, but it was all surface-level. A well-crafted mask to hide who he really was… the past version of himself whose action landed him in front of that judge.
Even Darren, who had known him for about two years, had only ever been given glimpses behind that wall. And he knew for damn sure Jordan wasn't about to lower it now. Quite the opposite in fact.
But that didn't mean Jordan wasn't feeling something.
Darren could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed once against the side of his glass before he forced them still. That tiny, almost imperceptible pause before he lifted his drink again.
In Darren's eyes, Jordan wasn't the kind of guy to explode. He didn't make a scene, didn't lash out. He just took whatever emotion he was feeling and shoved it deep down, locked it away where no one could reach it. Just as he always had.
That was the mask he had created.
Darren exhaled slowly and looked away. He felt something in that moment for Jordan. Pity maybe… compassion even. But he just sat there, staring blankly into the empty air. Maybe that was the problem. Because even now, watching the woman he had been seeing for the last year, cozy up to some asshole across the bar, Jordan didn't react. Not outwardly.
Alex leaned in her seat from across the bar, laughing at something one of the logistics guys had said, though she barely heard the words. Chase had excused himself to the restroom, and with him gone, the conversation dipped into small talk and half-hearted commentary about work. It was just enough of a lull for her gaze to drift across the bar, casually scanning the crowd.
She wasn't looking for anything in particular—just the usual habit of scoping out the room, making sure she was still the center of attention, still the one worth noticing. But then, her eyes landed on Clarke weaving his way back from the bar, beer in hand, making his way toward his table. And just like that, her stomach twisted.
She knew Clarke. She knew all of them. And if Clarke was here…
Her eyes followed his trajectory, scanning the faces at his table, the familiar group of mechanics, and electricians she had seen countless times before. Darren, Chris, a few others… and then—
Jordan.
He was sitting there, quiet, almost still, his fingers idly wrapped around the base of his glass. There were a few drinks in front of him—too many for the short time they'd been here—and his gaze was locked on nothing, just staring off into space. He hadn't even noticed her. Or maybe… he had.
Her breath caught slightly as Darren turned in his seat, his eyes flickering toward her. For the briefest moment, they locked eyes.
Recognition.
It wasn't anger, not exactly, but something close. Something knowing.
Then, without hesitation, Darren leaned toward Jordan and said something.
Alex was too far away to hear the words, but she knew they were about her. The way Darren's gaze had barely lingered, the way he immediately turned his attention back to Jordan, his voice low—yeah, they had seen her. Of course they had seen her.
She felt a strange, uneasy knot tighten in her stomach.
She had never promised Jordan anything. They had never defined what they were. She had made sure of that. Because the truth was, she liked Jordan—probably more than she liked admitting—but she liked being wanted more. She liked the chase, the push and pull, the way men scrambled for her attention. It gave her something, some sense of control over them. It had always worked in her favor.
But Jordan… Jordan was different. He never chased her like the others. He never begged for her time or hung on her every word. He wanted her, that much was clear, but he never acted like it defined him. He let her come and go, never trying to pin her down, never feeding into the game she played with every other guy.
And somehow, that made him the one she thought about when she was alone at night.
Not Chase. Not the logistics guys. Not the endless string of men who tried to impress her, to win her over. Jordan.
She could still picture the way he looked at her sometimes—deep, assessing, like he was seeing past whatever performance she was putting on. And now, sitting across the bar, knowing that he had already seen her, that Darren had just told him she was there with Chase—
Jordan didn't even look up.
He just took a slow sip of his drink, set it down, and signaled for another.
That knot in her stomach twisted harder.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure she liked being the one left unnoticed.
Alex kept stealing glances at Jordan from across the bar, her drink barely touched as her nerves coiled tighter with every passing second. Chase was still in the restroom, and the more she sat there, the worse the weight in her stomach became.
Jordan hadn't looked at her. Not once.
Darren had seen her. Clarke had seen her. Jordan knew she was here with Chase. And yet, he acted like she didn't exist. It was like watching a slow realization crash down around her, the kind she never expected to have—because she was the one people fought for, the one men pursued. And yet, Jordan wasn't doing anything.
He wasn't glaring at her.
He wasn't making a scene.
He wasn't even leaving.
He was just… existing. Without her. And that scared her.
She swallowed hard, inhaling sharply as she pushed back her chair and stood. "What the hell am I doing?"
Her legs carried her across the bar before she could think too much about it, her hands smoothing down the front of her dress as if that would steady her fraying nerves. As she approached Jordan's table, the rest of the guys took notice.
Chris and Clarke exchanged quick glances, barely concealing their smirks before they downed the last of their drinks. Darren, looking unimpressed, didn't even wait for a pretense—he just pushed back his chair and muttered, "I'm getting another round."
The others followed suit, abandoning their seats like rats off a sinking ship, leaving only Jordan behind. Jordan, who was finally looking at her now. Unamused. Unbothered. And yet, she could see it—the simmering disappointment beneath the surface, the kind that wasn't loud or aggressive but cut deeper than anything else.
"Hey," she said, voice smaller than she wanted it to be.
Jordan leaned back, arms folding across his chest as he regarded her, dark eyes unreadable. "Hey."
Her stomach twisted harder.
He knows. He definitely knows. She thought to herself.
She tried to think of something to say, some way to soften the moment, but every word that came to mind sounded pathetic. There was no excuse, no clever quip, no explanation that would undo what he had already seen.
Jordan wasn't like the others. He didn't play these games. And she had been caught. She could feel her pulse in her throat as she shifted on her feet.
"I, uh… I didn't expect to see you here," she tried, wincing the moment the words left her mouth.
Jordan exhaled sharply, something close to amusement—though there was no warmth in it—as he picked up his drink and took a slow sip. "Didn't expect to see you here either."
There was something in his voice—calm, even—but the edge was unmistakable.
Alex bit her lip. "Jordan, I—"
"You here with Chase?"
The words were blunt. A direct hit.
Alex stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She had seconds to decide—tell the truth, and it would be over. Lie, and…
Her throat felt tight.
He was watching her, waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, Alex realized she didn't want to lose someone. Not just anyone. Him. She should have been here with Jordan, not Chase. She should have never let it get to this point, never let herself fall back into the same old patterns. But she had.
And now, she was standing here, looking at the one person who never chased after her, who never begged for her attention—because he didn't have to. Because she was the one who had been thinking about him every night.
She opened her mouth, and for the first time, she didn't know what to say.
The silence between them stretched unbearably, thick with all the words Alex couldn't find, all the explanations that wouldn't matter now.
Jordan studied her for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose. A short, tired sound.
"You don't have to say anything," he offered, his voice even. Detached. A mercy. "You don't owe me anything… and I don't owe you."
The words were quick. Sharp. But more than that, Alex could hear what they really were—a shield. A way to sever whatever this had been before it could dig any deeper, before he could be hurt any more than he already was.
And she had hurt him, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
Maybe he wasn't the kind of guy to wear it outright—no anger, no accusations, no pleading—but it was there in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his fingers curled slightly against the tabletop, in the way he didn't look away, like he was memorizing this moment so he'd never let himself be in it again.
Alex swallowed past the lump in her throat.
She didn't know what else to say. Didn't know how to fix this, if it even could be fixed.
"…Okay." The word barely made it past her lips, small and weak.
Jordan nodded once—just a single, final motion—then stood. He didn't hesitate, didn't spare her another glance as he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and walked away, weaving effortlessly through the bar crowd.
Alex stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, watching as he slipped out the door without looking back.
He was gone. Just like that. A sharp breath shuddered past her lips, and she turned, making her way back toward her table on unsteady legs.
When she rejoined her group, the atmosphere had shifted slightly. Clarke, ever the opportunist, had invited himself to their table and slid closer to Olea, leaning in with a grin that was just a little too charming. Her female coworker rolled her eyes, but there was amusement behind it.
The groups had merged—somewhere between her conversation with Jordan and now, the lines had blurred. One of his friends, maybe Chris, had somehow ended up among her group, beers being passed around as conversation swelled.
It should have been easy to sink back into it. To pretend none of it mattered.
But Alex's gaze drifted across the room, back to where Jordan had been sitting. His table was empty. Her chest tightened. She looked toward the exit, to the door he had walked out of. A moment passed. Then another. And then she realized—she had never wanted to chase anyone before. But right now, she wanted to chase him.
The music thumped low and steady, blending into the hum of overlapping conversations and the clinking of glasses. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, cheap cologne, and the faint, lingering bitterness of unspoken words.
Alex sat stiffly at the table, her fingers curled around the rim of her drink, barely hearing Clarke's latest attempt at charming Olea. She forced a smile, nodded at the right moments, but her mind wasn't here. It was still outside, following Jordan's retreating figure into the cold alley, reliving the way his words—quick, detached, final—had sliced through her.
'You don't owe me anything… and I don't owe you.'
She swallowed hard, her throat tight.
Then, just as she was starting to collect herself, Chase returned from the bathroom, sliding back into his seat with the easy confidence he always carried. He draped an arm lazily over the back of her chair, oblivious—or perhaps unconcerned—about the shift in her demeanor.
"Damn, took you long enough," a friend snorted, raising his glass to his lips. "You fall in?"
Chase smirked. "Nah, just had to take care of business." His eyes flicked over to Alex. "Miss me?"
She gave him a half-hearted smile. "You were gone for, like, five minutes."
Chase leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to feign intimacy. "Yeah, but five minutes without me probably felt like a lifetime, huh?"
The guys at the table groaned, rolling their eyes, while Olea scoffed. "God, you are so full of yourself."
Chase just grinned, tipping his beer toward her. "Confidence, sweetheart. You should try it sometime."
Alex let out a breathy laugh, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She barely registered the way Clarke and Chris started ribbing Chase for his shamelessness because suddenly, the bar door swung open again.
Jordan stepped back inside.
Alex felt it before she even turned to look—an almost gravitational shift in the room, or maybe just in her.
He hadn't changed at all in the time he'd been outside, but something about him seemed colder now. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes flat and distant, as if he had already put the entire situation behind him. A fresh drink was in his hand, and instead of returning to his previous seat, he stood by the bar, leaning one elbow against the counter, his gaze focused on nothing in particular.
The energy at their table remained light, oblivious—until one of Alex's friends, a guy named Evan, took notice. He nudged Darren with his elbow.
"Hey, isn't that your buddy?"
Darren barely glanced over. "Yeah, that's Jordan."
Evan grinned, already waving him over. "Dude, bring him over! No point in drinking alone."
Darren hesitated, his eyes flicking to Alex for the briefest moment, reading the tension she was trying desperately to keep buried. But before he could say anything, Evan was already calling out.
"Yo, Jordan! Quit being antisocial and get over here."
Jordan turned his head at the sound of his name, his expression unreadable. For a split second, Alex thought he might refuse, just down his drink and leave altogether.
But then, without a word, he pushed off the bar and walked toward them.
Alex's pulse spiked.
He took the empty seat directly across from her.
The conversations around them continued as if nothing had changed, as if there wasn't a thick, unseen wire of tension stretching between them, taut and dangerous. Alex forced herself to look at anyone but Jordan.
The minutes stretched on, each one feeling heavier than the last.
And then, slowly, Chase started noticing it.
The way Alex wasn't quite meeting Jordan's gaze. The way Jordan, usually composed and unbothered, seemed… off. The slight stiffness in Darren's posture. The way Chris and Clarke were laughing, completely unaware, while something unspoken simmered just beneath the surface.
And Chase didn't like what he was seeing. The base was small in the grand scheme of things. He heard rumors, heard the secrets of relationships. That was his bread and butter being an unmarried single male, always on the prowl for his next conquest. Alex was proving especially hard to nail down. And now that he saw this situation with his own two eyes, he would not allow Jordan to get in his way. No matter what kind of history they may or may not have.
His jaw tightened as he took a long sip of his drink, his eyes flicking between Alex and Jordan, the realization dawning on him in pieces. He didn't say anything. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquid in his glass, an easy smirk curling at his lips.
He wasn't angry. Not outwardly. No, he was waiting. Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for the perfect moment to make Jordan look like a fool. And when it came, he'd make sure everyone saw it. Especially Alex.
The night had settled into that hazy, warm lull that came with enough drinks and easy conversation. The low buzz of voices and laughter had filled the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of music from inside Suave. But when Jordan and his friends finally peeled away from the table, heading for the outside seating, something shifted.
Alex felt it immediately. The absence of the rowdy maintenance crew left a noticeable gap in the atmosphere like the air had been sucked from the room. The lively, effortless flow of conversation faltered for just a second, but it was enough for everyone to realize where the real energy had been coming from. Even Olea—normally unbothered by anything that didn't involve her own amusement—cast a glance toward the front of the bar, where Jordan and the others had settled into one of the outdoor tables.
It didn't take long before they all started gravitating that way.
The outdoor section of Suave was lined with rickety metal tables, their surfaces worn and scratched from drunken scuffles and hurried drinks. The space was dimly lit by hanging bulbs that cast flickering golden light onto the concrete sidewalk. The night air was cooler now, carrying the distant sounds of the city beyond the bar.
Alex followed the group outside, keeping her pace even, but the weight in her stomach made her feel like she was walking toward something inevitable.
And then, right on cue, Chase started up again. Loud. Too loud.
"Man, this is nice, huh?" He stretched his arms dramatically, his voice cutting through the comfortable murmur of conversation at Jordan's table. "Way better than being cooped up inside. Good call, guys."
Jordan barely looked up from his drink. If he was annoyed, he didn't show it—yet.
Darren and Chris exchanged a glance, but they said nothing. They knew Chase well enough to recognize the undertone in his voice.
Alex knew it too.
Chase leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the table as if he were just making casual conversation. But there was something pointed in the way he looked at Jordan.
"You know, it's funny," Chase said, tilting his glass, the liquid swirling inside. "I was talking earlier about how important it is to have competent people in the right places, you know? Like, people who actually make sure things run smoothly. People who, if they weren't there, the whole operation would probably collapse."
He took a slow sip of his drink, then exhaled sharply. "But then I started thinking, man… There are some jobs where, if you pulled one guy out, it wouldn't even make a difference." He let out a small chuckle. "Like, no one would even notice if they were gone."
Alex's breath caught in her throat.
She knew exactly what he was doing.
Jordan finally looked up, but there was no reaction—no anger, no irritation. Just that flat, unreadable stare. The kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was truly unbothered or simply waiting for the right moment to strike back.
Chase, emboldened by the lack of immediate response, pressed on. "I mean, take, for example, maintenance crews," he said, his tone as casual as ever. "Important, sure, but essential? Eh." He made a so-so gesture with his hand. "I mean, a broken machine is a broken machine, right? Someone will eventually fix it, whether it's one of you guys, if you're competent enough, or we pay a contractor to do it. What's one of you guys compared to the whole system?"
Jordan took a slow sip of his drink, then set it down with a deliberate motion.
"That so?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
Chase smirked, leaning back like he'd just won something. "I mean, I'm just saying. We all play our parts, but some parts? Kinda… interchangeable."
Alex's heart pounded in her chest.
She could see the way Darren tensed slightly in his seat, the way Clarke glanced at Chris like they were both wondering how far Chase was planning to take this.
Jordan didn't move, didn't shift in his seat, but something in his expression darkened just enough to make the temperature drop a degree. He ran his fingers along the rim of his glass, slow and thoughtful.
"Interchangeable," he echoed like he was testing the word. He nodded slightly as if he were actually considering it. Then he exhaled, shaking his head. "Funny thing about that."
Chase raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Jordan leaned forward slightly. Not much, just enough to make it clear he wasn't about to let this slide. His voice stayed even, measured—but there was a weight behind it now, something heavy and deliberate. "Maybe one guy doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things." He shrugged. "But it's always the ones who think they're important who find out real quick just how useless they really are."
A tense silence settled over the table.
Alex barely breathed.
Chase, for the first time, didn't have a quick comeback. He glanced away, gripping his drink a little tighter than before.
Jordan leaned back again as if the whole thing had been nothing more than a passing observation. He reached for his glass, took another slow sip, and let the moment stretch.
Chase forced a chuckle, shaking his head like none of it had bothered him. But Alex saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers drummed just a little too fast against his glass.
He wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
But Jordan had just made it clear—if Chase wanted a fight, he'd better be ready to lose.
The night dragged on, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken resentment and half-drunken bravado. More drinks were poured, more voices rose and fell, but the atmosphere had shifted—darkened. Conversations blurred together, but beneath the surface, a slow-burning tension pulsed between Chase and Jordan, silent yet suffocating.
Neither of them looked at Alex anymore.
At some point, the reason for their hostility had become irrelevant. The bitterness between them had taken on a life of its own, feeding off every slight smirk, every sidelong glance, every word that was spoken just a little too loud. It had evolved past its origins, turning into something neither of them could—or wanted to—trace back to the source.
Jordan had stopped acknowledging Chase altogether. He ignored the jabs, the passive-aggressive comments, the exaggerated laughs that were meant to dig under his skin. He sat back in his chair, fingers lazily curled around his drink, his expression unreadable. He wasn't playing the game anymore, and that only made Chase more desperate to provoke a reaction.
It was small things at first.
A remark about how some people just didn't have what it took to make it in the military. A casual mention of how certain men—real men—had to claw their way to success while others simply existed in the background, unnoticed and unimportant.
Jordan didn't flinch. Didn't even glance up.
Chase leaned in, drumming his fingers against the table with a too-casual smirk. "Nothing to say?" He cocked his head. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised. You never really did have much going for you in the first place."
Jordan exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, before draining the last of his drink. He set the glass down carefully, then stood, stretching his shoulders. He was completely detached on the outside… he had to be.
"Callin' it a night," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. Almost like he was telling himself to go home before he faltered.
Chase scoffed. "Oh, come on, don't be like that." He grinned, voice slurring slightly from the alcohol. "We were just starting to have fun."
Jordan didn't respond. Didn't spare him a glance. He just turned and walked away.
The deliberate dismissal sent a white-hot wave of fury crashing through Chase's system. His smirk dropped, replaced with something meaner, uglier. His fingers curled into fists as he pushed back his chair.
"Yeah, that's right," he called after him, his voice too loud, too sharp against the background noise of the bar. "Run away, man. It's what you do best, isn't it?"
Jordan kept walking.
Chase's face twisted. He stood abruptly, knocking his drink over, but he didn't care. "Hey!" he barked, shoving past the others as he stalked after him. "You think you're too good to even look at me now?"
The moment spilled out of the bar and into the parking lot, the humid night air doing nothing to cool the heat rising between them. Chase's voice followed Jordan, a string of curses and insults that grew louder, more venomous with every step.
"You're a fucking joke, you know that?" Chase spat, his steps uneven as he caught up to him. "Acting like you're too good for this? Like you're too good for me?"
Jordan didn't slow. Didn't acknowledge him.
That only made Chase push harder.
"You keep acting like you don't care, but I see right through that bullshit." He let out a breathless, humorless laugh. "You think you're above this? Above me? Face it, man—you're nothing. Always have been, always will be."
Jordan's shoulders remained relaxed, his hands shoved in his pockets as he neared his car.
That wasn't enough for Chase.
"You think Alex wants you?" The name left his mouth like poison, meant to wound. "Her? With you?" He laughed cruelly. "Come on, man, get a grip. She's so far out of your league, it's embarrassing."
Jordan's footsteps slowed.
Chase's lips curled. He saw the slight shift in posture—the smallest tell. "She doesn't even see you, dude. You were just a fucking afterthought to her. You think you deserve someone like her?" He sneered. Chase cockily stomped forward toward Jordan as he reached for his car keys. He was just about to place his hand on his shoulder like an older man teaching a youngster some kind of life lesson. "She wouldn't waste her time on a nobody—"
The second Chase's hand clamped down on Jordan's shoulder, everything that was building inside of Jordan just snapped.
Now… there is something you have to understand about Jordan. Something fundamental, something at his core.
Ever since he was a kid he had believed, with a certainty, that bordered on delusion, that he was more. More than the others in his run-down trailer park, more than the kids who tripped over their own feet in gym class, more than the men who let their bodies go soft with time. He had convinced himself he was built different, and he had spent every day proving it to himself in ways that left no room for doubt.
He would drag cinder blocks across the yard before he was old enough to drive, hoisting rusted metal scraps behind Dad's shed like gym equipment. He would run for hours, long past the point of exhaustion, long past the moment when others would collapse, because, to Jordan, the pain was not a stopping point—it was a threshold to push through. A goal to aim for, where the real work started. He wasn't just training his body. He was training his mind, reinforcing the illusion he had sculpted into an unwavering truth: He was above the average human.
Not intellectually. Not morally. But physically—undeniably, indisputably. He never let it slip in conversation, never let the arrogance bleed into his words, but when he looked at people, he knew. He measured them against himself, weighed their capabilities, and dissected their weaknesses. And they never measured up.
By the time he reached adulthood, he had become a walking contradiction—209 pounds of lean, brutal muscle that moved with a sprinter's speed and a fighter's precision. He had spent his youth as a long-distance runner, carving endurance into his bones, lungs trained to pull air with relentless efficiency. But endurance alone wasn't enough. He trained with different people in many different forms of close combat. He lifted weights, much heavier than he should. But he never stopped running as hard as he had in the beginning. Over the years, he had added mass, force, and destruction, without sacrificing the speed that made him deadly. Somehow, impossibly, he had sculpted himself into something that should not exist: a man who could run like a marathoner but hit like a warhammer.
His strength was not the greatest in the world—there were powerlifters who could bench three times his max, men with arms like steel beams. But that wasn't the point.
Most men had one thing. Power or speed. Mass or endurance. They were specialists, their bodies honed in a singular direction. But Jordan? He wanted it all.
And that meant that when Jordan moved—when he truly committed to action—he did so with a force and velocity that the average person simply could not comprehend. It was beyond their frame of reference, beyond what they were accustomed to seeing in real life. He was a bigger guy, so the way he moved was never expected when he went all out.
When Jordan snapped, it was like watching a car crash at full speed—fast, brutal, and unstoppable. Jimmy was the first ever to experience this firsthand. And tonight, a little drunk, in the dim-lit parking lot outside the bar, Chase was about to find out exactly what Jordan was capable of.
Jordan turned so fast, so suddenly, that Chase barely had time to react before a fist connected with his jaw.
The impact was brutal. A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the parking lot as Chase's head snapped to the side. His balance faltered, his vision blurred, and before he could catch himself, another blow drove into his ribs, sending him stumbling back against the hood of a parked car.
The world tilted.
Chase barely had time to suck in a breath before Jordan was on him again, a hand fisting in his shirt, dragging him forward just to slam him back down.
The rage in Jordan's eyes wasn't loud. It wasn't wild. It was quiet, focused—lethal. No doubt in his movements or actions.
"You talk too much," Jordan muttered, voice low and dangerous.
Chase coughed, pain exploding through his ribs as he struggled to regain himself. He swung blindly, but Jordan caught his wrist midair, twisting it back just enough to send a sharp bolt of pain through his arm.
"Fuck—!" Chase choked, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
Jordan yanked him forward again, their faces inches apart. "Don't ever put your hands on me again." His voice was calm. Too calm.
For the first time that night, Chase didn't have anything to say.
Jordan let go abruptly, shoving him back with enough force that he nearly crumpled against the car. Then, without another word, Jordan stepped away, his breaths even, his expression unreadable once more.
Chase stayed where he was, clutching his ribs, his face twisted with humiliation and something dangerously close to fear. Blood ran from the skin of his lips and above his right eye. He was beaten… and it happened so fast that he could barely register what exactly had transpired. He was still pretty shell-shocked.
Jordan didn't spare him another glance. He just turned, walked back to his car, and left Chase crumpled there—beaten, speechless, and alone.
Jordan had turned away, uninterested in whatever last, pathetic remark Chase had thrown his way. It should've ended there—Jordan walking off, leaving Chase to wallow in his wounded ego. But men like Chase never let things go. They burned with the kind of insecurity that demanded an audience, that needed to claw its way back from humiliation with violence.
A sharp metallic snick cut through the air like a guillotine.
Chase exploded forward.
The movement was sudden and violent—his body launching ahead with the erratic, reckless speed of someone drunk and furious. Gasps tore from the watching group as they saw the glint of a knife catching the dim streetlights, a six-inch folding blade now fully extended in Chase's hand.
"Chase! No!" Alex yelled, but the words were swallowed by the chaos.
The others moved, but too slowly. Hands reached, voices screamed, but none of it mattered—Chase was too close, too fast, and Jordan—
Then something happened.
Every single person in that parking lot froze, not from fear, but from something else. Something much, much bigger.
A thin, translucent blue screen materialized in the air before them, glowing with an otherworldly light. Not just in front of them, but in front of every single person on Earth.
A voice—not a voice, but something deeper, something felt inside their minds—echoed through existence:
"Welcome to the System."
Then the ground shook. Not just the pavement beneath their feet—the world. A deep, rumbling quiver passed through every structure, every street, everybody standing upright. People across the planet staggered, hands reaching for walls, for cars, for anything to hold them steady.
And then—
New text scrolled across the glowing blue screens, visible to every living soul:
"Integration into the multiverse will begin in ten seconds."
Jordan's fists had clenched, his body wired for a fight, but even he hesitated at this screen, his darkened eyes flicking up to the incomprehensible display before him.
"Tutorial sequence engaging. (Warning: No alternate races can be selected by inhabitants of Planet Earth. 'Human' will be selected as the default race for the Planet.)
The screen pulsed and shifted. More text scrolled.
"Class selection available. Choose carefully, as the class selection is nigh unchangeable. See selected Classes…"
Then, a list—hundreds, thousands of options cascading down the screen, unfurling like an endless digital scroll.
"What the fuck…?" Darren's voice came out hoarse, almost reverent, as he stared into the glowing blue light.
They all did.
The night, once filled with drunken bravado and petty violence, had turned into something else entirely. Something beyond them. Something that would change the world forever.
It happened in a blink—faster than thought, faster than breath.
Jordan barely had time to register the flickering blue screen in front of him before something cold, something final, punched through his chest.
The impact stole the air from his lungs, a brutal, visceral shock spreading through his ribcage as six inches of hardened steel drove into him like an iron stake. A sharp, choked gasp ripped from his throat as he staggered back, his body refusing to process what had just happened. Then came the pain.
A white-hot bloom of agony radiated outward from the wound, every nerve screaming, every pulse an explosion inside him. His fingers twitched at his sides as his knees buckled, the ground rushing toward him. The pavement met him with cruel indifference, slamming into his back as his breath shuddered from his lips.
Chase stood over him, his chest heaving, eyes wide with something between triumph and horror. The knife—Chase's knife—was still buried in his chest, Chase's fingers hovering inches from the hilt like he hadn't fully grasped what he'd done.
They had been fighting. Chase had always been fighting with someone, he never let things go. The anger, the grudges, the petty bullshit that should have died long ago—it had built, brick by brick, into something monstrous. And now, here it was attacking the sole target in front of him.
The translucent blue screens that had appeared moments ago—the ones that had stopped them all in their tracks, the ones that had made their world glitch—still floated in the periphery. But now, they didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the knife… and the blood. The only thing that Chase could think was… I just killed him.
Jordan coughed, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. His chest rose and fell in uneven, broken gasps. He could hear someone yelling—someone was screaming his name—but his vision had started to blur, tunneling inward as the world closed in on him.
Chase took a stumbling step back, his breath ragged, his hands shaking. "I—" His voice cracked. "I didn't—"
The realization struck Chase like a hammer. His body sagged, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. His hands trembled, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as if words had abandoned him.
Jordan had seen it in his eyes before the knife went in. The way Chase lunged. The way his grip tightened. The way he'd wanted it.
In the periphery, beyond the blur of floating blue screens, Jordan could see them; Alex, the guys from maintenance, and logistics. His so-called friends.
None of them had stopped this. None of them had moved. They had let it happen, although they stared into the bloody scene with shock and horror. None of them stopped Chase on his tirade.
A new kind of pain spread through Jordan—one deeper than the blade, deeper than the blood loss. Betrayal.
They let him do this to me.
His gaze landed on Alex, and for a moment, he wasn't staring at the girl who had been so much of his world lately. He was staring at a stranger.
She chose him. And now I'm dying for it.
Rage flared in his chest, burning away the cold for a fleeting second.
She left me for him.
She stood there watching as he drove the knife through Jordan's heart.
His vision swam again. He was slipping. The blue screen in front of him pulsed, flickering as words formed across its surface. He squinted, but his eyes refused to focus. The letters blurred and danced, unreadable symbols forming and fading as if the screen itself was glitching.
Somewhere in the depths of his failing mind, images of his mother and father surfaced, memories ghosting across his mind like distant echoes. His mother's soft hum as she made dinner. His father's calloused hands gripped his shoulder in a hug. His sister and all the stupid stuff they got into as kids. her haunted face after what Jimmy had done.
It hurt. God, it hurt. But then— Then the pain started to fade. It was subtle at first. A shift, a gentle pull, as though something was peeling him away from his own body. His breath slowed. His heartbeat softened, its desperate hammering turning into a dull, fading rhythm.
For the first time in a long time, the rage—the bitterness—the anger—all of it—slipped away. And for a fleeting moment, Jordan felt peace.
A vast, open nothingness stretched before him, and he let himself sink into it, weightless, unbound.
But just before the darkness swallowed him whole, the blue screen in front of him flickered.
ERROR… Race: Human…
His fading consciousness barely had time to process the words before the screen died, vanishing into the void.
Jordan felt himself drifting. Gone. Empty.
But then… A new screen burst into existence. Not blue… Red. Crimson, pulsing, alive.
And then, there was nothing.