Jack Spencer used to be someone else. Someone older, someone hardened, someone who made the mistake of trusting the wrong people—and paid for it with his life. Now, he’s in a different body, staring at a future that doesn’t belong to him. He should be grateful for this second chance. He should want to start over. But how do you move forward when every part of you is still trapped in the past? How do you live when you already died once? Jack tells himself he doesn’t need friends. He doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need anything but distance. But the more he pushes people away, the more they insist on seeing the person he refuses to be. And when the remnants of his past begin creeping into his new life, Jack has to decide: Is he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, or can he finally break free from the dead-end path that refuses to let him go? (Trigger Warnings Included)
Lihat lebih banyakI couldn't get the system's words out of my head. "You'll soon be too preoccupied to think about it." What the hell did that mean? What could possibly take my mind off the weight of what I'd done in my past life—of Gianna, of Jason, of everything unraveling? [Mission Accomplished! You will receive secret intel!] I froze. That... that would do it. What the actual fuck was going on? I hadn't even made a move toward atonement yet, and the mission was already marked as complete? How? Why? My phone buzzed, Jason's name lighting up the screen. It was nearly 2 a.m. A part of me didn't want to answer—I was exhausted from the party and from... well, everything. But I picked up. "Hello—" "Jack?" Jason's voice was breathless, panicked, and definitely crying. "I—I need you... to come over! I need you to come over now!" He was gasping like he couldn't breathe. "What's up? Is it your dad?" "No! No! No, no—" "Tell me what happened!" I snapped, heart racing. "No! I—I can't actually say—"
{TW: Suicide attempt} The memory came back like a bullet to the skull—sudden, searing, and impossible to ignore. I was seventeen. A parking garage bathed in that awful yellow-white light, nearly abandoned except for the low hum of flickering fluorescent tubes above me. The scent of oil and cold concrete filled the air. My footsteps were quiet, deliberate, echoing through the still space as I closed in on her. Gianna Lionetti. A cloth gripped tightly in my hand, soaked in chloroform. She didn't even have time to scream. I grabbed her from behind, pressing the cloth to her mouth and nose with a vice grip. She fought hard. Nails like razors dug into my wrist, her limbs thrashing with the kind of panic only people on the edge of death can summon. It took a full minute and a half—ninety long seconds of struggle—before her body finally sagged, unconscious in my arms. I eased her down like a sleepwalker, like she was fragile glass. Then, almost robotically, I opened the passenger door,
I sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet couch, hands clenched loosely in my lap as camera flashes exploded from every angle. The drawing room was filled to the brim with reporters—some with cameras, some already holding up mics with eager hands, all of them watching me like a hawk about to strike. This was actually kind of terrifying. The last time I'd been in front of this many cameras was... well, it wasn't exactly a shining moment. I was being perp-walked in my last life, paraded in handcuffs while people shouted for my head. The bright lights, the judgmental stares—it all felt a little too familiar. A woman in the front row leaned forward, mic close. "How did you manage to get such incredible scores?" I blinked at her. "Studying like a normal person. It's not like there was much else to do besides that and work." Click. Click. Flash. "Your first appearance on TV left people with a bad impression of you. What do you think about that?" another reporter asked. I rolled my eyes
Ok, wow. I don't even know when I lost consciousness. All I know is that I've never felt anything like that in my life. It was overwhelming—in the best, most mind-blowing way. The kind of thing that leaves your body aching, your brain blank, and your soul just a little bit altered. Eight-plus rounds. All night. Lust without restraint. I hadn't known a first-timer could go all out like that, but apparently Damien had been holding back a lot for me. I remembered everything. I'm not a virgin anymore either. Every time he said my name in the heat of it, it sounded so damn good—like music tuned specifically to my ears. He loved biting and leaving marks, and now there was an obscene amount of them all over me. My body still felt wrecked. My mind? Still trying to catch up. The first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, soft and golden, casting a gentle hue across the rumpled sheets. I turned over—and there he was. Damien's sculpted torso rose and fell with
"Jack!" Damien's voice rang out, sharp with alarm. Before I could react, Emmett's hands were around my throat, tightening like a vice. My air was cut off instantly, my vision tunneling. He was trying to choke me out. Not happening. I gritted my teeth and kicked his shin with all the force I could muster. A pained grunt escaped him as his leg buckled, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward. Then I closed my eyes and bit down on his neck. Hard. Pain shot through my jaw as my teeth sank into flesh. Warm, metallic-tasting blood rushed into my mouth, the coppery tang coating my tongue. Emmett screamed—a raw, agonized sound—as he shoved me off him, stumbling to the ground, his hands clamping over the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. Spitting out the blood, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and spotted a large rock nearby. Perfect. I picked it up, weighing it in my hands
{TW: violence} Emmett's car screeched to a halt in front of the old warehouse, headlights cutting through the dimly lit lot. I stood waiting, arms crossed, as he slammed the door shut and stormed toward me. His glare was the hardest I'd ever seen from anyone—he sure was pissed. "Jack Spencer, you cocky asshole!" he roared. "How dare you play around with me?! Do you even know what you've done?! You motherfucker!" I smirked, unfazed. "What did I do? I followed the rules," I said casually. "You took the money and ran before the results came out. Did I scare you that much?" "You little rat!" "Only one of us is acting like a little rat right now," I taunted. "I can actually help you out if you ask nicely." "You bitch!" he spat, fists clenching at his sides. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but his rage was barely held back. "Did you think it would be worth a try to fight here or something?!" Then, something changed. His glare wavered, replaced by something almost de
"Let's get fired up!" Clap-clap-clap-clap. "We are fired up!" Clap-clap-clap-clap. As the football players took the field, the cheerleaders worked to get the crowd energized, their hands clapping in perfect rhythm. "Really fired up!" Clap-clap-clap-clap. The crowd erupted into cheers, and I scanned the field, telling myself I wasn't looking for Damien and Jason—I was just looking. But when I spotted them sitting with a few other players, my stomach did a little flip. "Let's go, Tigers!" Beatrix yelled through her bullhorn. Off to the side, Jared stood in his full mascot outfit—a giant fuzzy orange-and-black-striped jumpsuit topped with an oversized tiger head. When the cheerleaders hit their final pose, he rushed in, slid to a stop on one knee, and threw out his arms like he'd just pulled off the greatest trick in the world. Idiot. The crowd clapped listlessly. A few half-hearted whistles floated through the air. The coach wasted no time, yelling for the cheerleaders to
{TW: Fight} For the past two weeks, we had been attending amateur sports matches, and everything had gone exactly as I planned. The underdog teams were winning—thanks to the extra funding I had helped secure for harsher trainers and last-minute substitutions. Basketball was already over, and the second match had ended in a reverse victory. Now, with only one game left, I was certain Emmett had caught on by now. Desperation would make him reckless. He would most likely send someone to stop my winning streak. Which is why I had come more than prepared. This was all part of the plan—to make him notice me, to make him move first. And I took full advantage of the fact that there was no upper limit on bets. If I kept going unchecked, Beck10 would have no commission left. Soon, they'd have no choice but to inquire about the dividends themselves. The most logical move would be to scam me now, but they hadn't. Which meant they still had someone in their corner, raising the stakes a
The guest house in my parents' yard stood quiet and still, its once-pristine exterior now dulled from years of neglect. The structure was charming yet unassuming, a modest white-bricked cottage with a wraparound porch, half-covered in leaves that had gathered over time. The windows, though elegant, were coated in a thin layer of dust, and the porch light flickered intermittently, as if struggling to stay alive. It was clear the place hadn't been used in a while. The only real sound in the night was the muffled curses from the hot trunk of the car. Jason and I hauled Ivan out, his lean frame squirming violently in our grip. "You motherfuckers!" he screamed, thrashing as much as the handcuffs would allow. Jason didn't even flinch. I smirked. "Isn't it you that fucked up first?" Ivan kicked out, struggling, but we dragged him up the creaky wooden porch and into the dimly lit house, the door slamming shut behind us. Jason flicked on the lights, revealing a simple but elegant inter
The whiskey burned going down, but I barely noticed. The rain hammering against my office window had become a familiar sound to me—one I was beginning to resent. The war with the Vultures had been dragging on for months, and the body count just kept climbing. The cops were breathing down my neck, demanding answers I didn't have. My crew—my family—was all I had left, and I'd fight to the bitter end to keep us on top. But something was wrong. Jobs had gone south, shipments intercepted, safe houses raided like clockwork. Someone was feeding the Vultures intel, and deep down, I already knew who. Eli Roth. My right-hand man. My brother. We'd run this gang together since high school. I wanted to believe he was still the guy who had my back through shootouts, deals gone wrong, and nights when we had nothing but each other and a couple of stolen beers. But everything pointed to him. And soon, I'd have my proof. Not that I wanted it. Tonight, I should've gone to the warehouse to regroup a...
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