The splintered wood of the confessional booth smelled of dry rot, ancient incense, and the sharp, chemical tang of ozone. Through the narrow slats of the priest’s partition, the white beam of Officer Briggs’s tactical flashlight cut a blinding swath across Jack Mercer’s bloodshot eyes. The heavy, double-barreled muzzle of a riot shotgun pressed directly against the carved oak paneling, mere inches from Jack’s chest.

"End of the line, Mercer," Briggs sneered, his voice dripping with the arrogant certainty of a man backed by the badge and the syndicate. "My uncle’s been cleaning up your messes for three years, but the board at Aegis is tired of paying for the matches. You’re done playing detective. The 'Memory Butcher' stops here."

Jack’s body refused to cooperate. The high-voltage surge from the patrolman’s shock-baton had short-circuited his DIY Neural Collar, leaving his left arm and right hand completely paralyzed in a violent, shivering neural spasm. Beneath his wet duster, his chest burns from Acid Annie’s corrosive secretions flared with white-hot agony. His right hand, wrapped in stiff, blood-soaked layers of medical tape to stabilize the fractured bones Sledge had shattered, was a dead weight.

*"He’s going to paint this pretty little church with our brains, cop,"* Brick Malone’s voice roared from the dark, locked corridors of his subconscious. The dead enforcer’s voice was no longer a gravelly whisper; it was a physical hammer, vibrating directly against Jack’s skull. *"Let me out! Let me turn this soft, useless skin to granite! I’ll snap his neck before he can twitch his trigger finger! Let me take the wheel!"*

*No,* Jack thought, his teeth grinding until his jaw ached. *I control the shell. I don't kill cops. Not like this.*

Briggs shifted his weight, his finger tightening on the trigger. He was looking at Jack’s eyes—eyes that were beginning to flicker with an unstable, glowing blue static.

Jack didn't have his father’s service revolver; it remained lost, wedged tight in a flooded drainage grate miles behind him in the dark sewers of the Black Sump. He had no firearms. But he had his native detective's focus, and he had the narrow, claustrophobic confines of the wooden booth. He observed the slight tilt of Briggs’s shoulder—the classic posture of a shooter preparing for a high-recoil blast. Briggs was leaning too far forward, trusting the heavy oak to protect him.

Using the absolute last reserve of his physical strength, Jack shifted his weight to his heels and rammed his back against the rear wall of the confessional. At the exact same instant, he focused on the memory of Malone’s brute density, forcing a localized burst of concrete-hardening power directly into his forehead.

*Concrete Hardening.*

His eyes flashed a brilliant, unstable blue—the Blue Sclera Flash—just as Briggs squeezed the trigger.

*BOOM.*

The deafening roar of the shotgun blast shattered the wooden lattice, sending a storm of burning oak splinters and lead shot tearing through the priest’s side of the booth. But Jack’s sudden shift had thrown off Briggs’s aim. The bulk of the blast shredded the empty space where Jack’s chest had been a fraction of a second prior.

Before the smoke could clear, Jack lunged forward through the ruined partition. His left hand, still stiff but functional, shot out like a grey, stone-hardened vice, clamping onto the hot steel barrel of the shotgun and twisting it upward. Briggs gasped, his grip slipping on the lacquered stock as Jack slammed his concrete-hardened forehead directly into the bridge of the patrolman’s nose.

*Crack.*

The sound of bone shattering was flat and wet. Briggs let out a strangled shriek, dropping the shotgun as he stumbled backward out of the confessional, clutching his bloody face.

"Briggs!" a sharp, athletic voice hissed from the shadows of the side altar.

Detective Jane Sterling emerged from the darkness of the crypt entrance, her service weapon drawn and raised. She didn't fire; instead, she closed the distance in three swift, silent strides, slamming the heavy butt of her pistol into the temple of the second patrolman who was just recovering from Jack’s previous ambush in the choir loft. The guard collapsed onto the cold marble floor with a dull thud.

"We have to go, Jack!" Jane panted, her dark NCPD uniform coat slick with rain, her ponytail frayed and damp. "The patrolmen outside will have heard that blast. We have less than two minutes before the SWAT cruisers lock down the entire parish block."

Jack stumbled out of the ruined confessional, his stone-hardened skin slowly peeling away, dissolving back into pale, bruised human flesh. The physical strain of the power use had triggered a blinding migraine, and dark, synthetic red blood was beginning to drip from his left nostril. He looked down at the groaning Officer Briggs, who was rolling on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

"We’re taking him with us," Jack rasped, his voice a hollow, gravelly ruin.

Jane’s eyes went wide. "Are you insane? He’s a cop, Jack! If we kidnap a patrolman, they’ll hunt us with everything Aegis has!"

"He’s not a cop," Jack said, bending down to grab Briggs by the collar of his tactical vest with his left hand, ignoring the agonizing grind of the fractured bones in his right. "He’s Donald Briggs’s nephew. He’s the only line we have left to the man who signed Sarah’s death warrant. Grab his shotgun. We’re going down."

Jane hesitated for a fraction of a second, her analytical mind calculating the immense professional and physical risk. Then, with a tight nod, she snatched Briggs’s fallen shotgun and helped Jack drag the bleeding, semi-conscious patrolman toward the altar.

They slipped through the heavy iron gate of the crypts, descending into the damp, freezing darkness beneath St. Jude Parish just as the distant, high-pitched wails of tactical police sirens began to echo through the rainy streets above.

***

The journey through the Black Sump was a blur of cold water, toxic chemical steam, and the relentless, high-frequency shriek of Jack’s failing collar. Jane held him up, her shoulder pressed under his armpit, her boots splashing through the knee-deep filth of the drainage tunnels. Between them, they dragged Officer Briggs, whose broken nose had painted his uniform in a dark, sticky crimson.

"Keep moving, Jack," Jane muttered, her face pale with exhaustion. "Just a little further. Don't you dare black out on me."

Jack couldn't answer. The electrodes at the base of his skull were sparking erratically, sending sharp, stinging currents directly into his brain stem. His wrist-link flickered a hostile, dying amber. The battery of his DIY Neural Collar was hovering at fifty-five percent, and without the stable electromagnetic pulses, the mental partition inside his mind was disintegrating. Malone’s gravelly laughter was a constant, mocking echo behind his eyes.

They finally reached the rusted, unmarked iron door of the old meatpacking plant. With trembling, blood-slicked fingers, Jack entered the biometric sequence on the lead-lined keypad. The heavy door groaned open with a hiss of pressurized air, revealing the sterile, cold sanctuary of the Echo Chamber.

They dragged Briggs inside, letting him collapse onto the concrete floor. Jane slammed the massive vault door shut, turning the heavy steel wheel until the locks clicked into place with a definitive, metallic thud.

Instantly, the deafening, chaotic static of the city’s surveillance scanners and digital broadcasts vanished. The lead-lined walls of the bunker completely blocked out all external electromagnetic and psychic frequencies. For the first time in hours, Jack felt a wave of absolute, blessed silence wash over his mind.

But the internal silence did not last.

Jack collapsed against a metal workbench, panting, his hand closing around the cool, tarnished silver of Sarah’s locket in his duster pocket. He pulled it out, his fingers tracing the delicate, scratched engravings. He popped the latch with his thumb, staring down at her faded photograph. Her wavy dark hair, her brilliant, secretive smile—she looked so peaceful, so untouched by the rot of New Chicago. But as he stared at her lips, he realized with a sickening jolt of panic that he could no longer remember the sound of her voice. When he tried to imagine her speaking his name, there was only a flat, empty static.

"Jack," Jane said softly, stepping closer, her eyes filled with a deep, silent worry as she watched him clutch the locket. "We stabilized him. But we don't have much time. The NCPD will be tracking Briggs's last known GPS ping to the church. It won't take Christian Ward long to start sweeping the surrounding blocks."

Jack closed the locket with a soft click, slipping it back into his pocket. He reached into his inner duster pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool plastic of the Encrypted Data Drive Jane had handed him days ago. It contained the raw security logs proving Lieutenant Donald Briggs had coordinated the camera blackout on the night of Sarah's murder. Now, the nephew of that traitor was sitting in his chair.

"Let's get the truth," Jack said.

He dragged a heavy, industrial steel chair to the center of the room. Together, they hoisted the groaning Officer Briggs onto it, binding his arms and legs tight with heavy-duty synthetic zip-ties.

Briggs blinked, his vision slowly clearing as the cold, sterile light of the bunker hit his face. He spat a mouthful of thick, dark blood onto the concrete floor, his eyes shifting from Jane’s dark NCPD coat to Jack’s scarred, pale face. Despite his broken nose and the plastic binds cutting into his wrists, a mocking, arrogant sneer stretched across his bloody lips.

"Sterling," Briggs wheezed, his voice nasal and wet. "You're a dead woman. You think this washed-up, alcoholic junkie can protect you? The chief is going to have your badge for this. They’ll put you in a mind-extraction pod before the week is out."

Jane didn't flinch. She stood in the corner, her hand resting on the butt of her holstered pistol, her eyes cold. "Your uncle isn't here to save you, Briggs. And the NCPD doesn't know where this bunker is. You're off the grid."

Jack stepped forward, his boots clicking flatly against the concrete. He leaned down, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Briggs’s face. "I want your uncle’s schedule, Briggs. I want to know where Lieutenant Donald Briggs is meeting his syndicate buyers tonight. And I want the location of the safehouse where he keeps his private files."

Briggs let out a wet, bubbling laugh. "You think I'm going to tell you anything, Mercer? You're a wanted fugitive. A rogue mutant who’s about to have his brain fried by his own collar. My uncle is the chief of the fifth precinct. He’s backed by 'The Seven' and Aegis Corp. You’re nothing but street trash. Go ahead, hit me. You don't have the stomach to do what it takes."

Jack’s hand began to tremble—the chronic hand tremor flaring up as his physical stamina depleted. The physical pain in his fractured hand was immense, a dull, throbbing heat that made his knuckles swell beneath the tape.

*"He's right, cop,"* Brick Malone’s voice rumbled, surging against the mental partition. *"You're too soft. You're still trying to be a detective with a badge. But the badge is gone. Let me out. Let me show him what we do to tough guys in District 13. Let me break his fingers one by one until he squeals like a pig."*

Jack closed his eyes, his breath shallow. He looked at the Encrypted Data Drive on the table. He looked at the raw, blistered skin on his own neck where the collar electrodes bit deep. He realized Briggs was right—standard police interrogation techniques wouldn't work on a man who believed his corporate masters were gods. He had to use a monster to terrify a monster.

He had to use Malone.

"Jane," Jack muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "Turn around."

Jane frowned, her brow furrowing. "Jack? What are you—"

"Turn around, Jane. Don't look at me."

With a slow, hesitant step, Jane retreated toward the heavy vault door, her eyes locked on Jack with a mixture of fear and deep, intuitive understanding. She turned her back to the scene, her shoulders tensing.

Jack stood in front of Briggs. He took a deep, ragged breath, and deliberately, slowly, he reached into his mind and unlocked the heavy steel door of his mental partition. He allowed the brutal, violent consciousness of Brick Malone to flood his neural pathways.

Instantly, a violent spasm racked Jack’s spine. His shoulders squared, his posture shifting from the slouched, weary stance of a disgraced detective to the broad, menacing sprawl of a street-level titan. The veins on his temples and neck flared to life, glowing with an unstable, brilliant blue light. His bloodshot eyes dilated, the whites flashing with the cold, electric static of the Blue Sclera Flash.

When he spoke, the voice that came out of Jack’s mouth was not his own. It was a brutal, deep, gravelly baritone that sounded like grinding stones—the unmistakable voice of Brick Malone.

**"You think you're safe because you wear that shiny little badge, kid?"** Jack rumbled, the sheer physical force of the voice vibrating the metal cabinets along the bunker wall.

Briggs’s mocking sneer instantly froze. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, translucent grey beneath the blood. His eyes went wide, staring at Jack with a primal, paralyzing terror. He had spent years working with the Concrete Crushers; he knew that voice. He had heard it order the execution of a dozen rival gang members in the back-alleys of District 13.

"M-Malone?" Briggs stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to shrink back into the steel chair. "No... Malone is dead. The Butcher killed him..."

**"The Butcher didn't kill me, little Briggs,"** Jack sneered, stepping closer, his face casting a long, monstrous shadow over the bound patrolman. **"He just gave me a new home. And right now, I'm really, really hungry. Your uncle Donald thought he could use us as muscle and then dump us in the Sump when the cameras went dark. He thought he could buy our silence with a few cheap syringes."**

Jack reached out with his left hand, his fingers slowly turning a rough, grey, stone-like texture. He wrapped his concrete-hardened fingers around Briggs’s throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his breath.

**"I know where Donald keeps his ledger, kid. But I want to hear it from you. Where is he meeting Victor Vance tonight? Speak, or I’ll turn your throat to gravel."**

Briggs thrashed against the zip-ties, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple as his boots kicked uselessly against the concrete floor. "N-No... please..." he wheezed, tears of absolute panic welling in his eyes. "I can't... Donald will kill me... the syndicate..."

*"Kill him, cop,"* Malone’s voice screamed inside Jack’s head, a deafening roar of sadistic joy that threatened to push Jack’s remaining consciousness into a complete Fugue State. *"He’s a squealer! Pull his throat out! Let’s paint this floor red! We don't need his words, we can just tear his mind apart!"*

Jack’s hand tightened. His eyes were turning completely black, the blue static spreading across his retinas. The boundary was dissolving. He was no longer Jack Mercer; he was the monster, the parasite, the executioner. His right hand, despite the fractured bones, began to drift toward Briggs’s holstered service pistol on the workbench, his fingers twitching with a cold, murderous intent.

*No,* a silent voice whispered from the deepest, uncorrupted corner of his soul. *I am a detective. I am Jack Mercer. I do not kill.*

With an agonizing mental wrench, Jack forced his left hand to reach into his pocket. His trembling, stone-hardened fingers closed around the cool, tarnished silver of Sarah’s locket.

He pulled it out and held it before his eyes.

*The Locket Focus.*

He stared at the silent, fading photograph of his wife. He focused on the delicate lines of her face, the quiet grace of her smile. He repeated his own name in his mind, over and over, like a mantra against the dark: *Jack Mercer. Jack Mercer. Detective Jack Mercer.*

For sixty agonizing seconds, the bunker was silent save for the ragged, suffocating gasps of Officer Briggs and the high-frequency shriek of the neural collar. Slowly, the blue static in Jack’s eyes began to recede. The grey, stone-like texture on his hand dissolved, returning to pale, bruised flesh. The glowing veins on his temples faded back into the shadows.

With a sharp gasp, Jack released his grip on Briggs’s throat, stumbling backward against the workbench. He raised his left hand and slammed it down onto the heavy metal table instead of pulling the trigger, the physical impact denting the steel and sending a sharp, sickening jolt of pain through his sprained wrist.

"Speak," Jack rasped, his own voice returning, hollow and exhausted. "Now."

Briggs slumped forward in the chair, coughing violently as he sucked in the cold, metallic air of the bunker. Blood and saliva dripped from his chin onto his boots. He looked up at Jack, his spirit completely broken, his eyes vacant with the terror of a man who had just stared into the abyss.

"The... The Neon Rose," Briggs sobbed, his voice a trembling whisper. "Tonight... at midnight. My uncle... Lieutenant Briggs... he’s meeting a high-ranking syndicate buyer in the VIP lounge. He’s... he’s selling the original security logs... the ones you’re looking for. He’s clearing his own tracks before Aegis wipes the precinct database."

Jack stood frozen, his hand still resting on the dented metal table. He had the location. He had the time. The Neon Rose—the high-class border zone of the Gilded Sector, the very place Twitch’s matchbook had pointed him toward.

But as he looked down at his trembling hands, he could feel Brick Malone’s gravelly voice clawing at the mental partition, screaming in rage at being denied his blood. The dead enforcer was still there, scratching at the steel doors of his mind, waiting for the next moment of physical weakness to drag Jack back into the dark.

Jack turned to Jane, who was slowly turning back toward him, her face pale, her eyes filled with a quiet, terrifying realization of the monster her partner was becoming.

"We have our target," Jack said, his voice cold, but his hand was still hovering over the bound cop’s weapon, his fingers twitching as the dead man’s voice demanded blood.