Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night had a strange perfume — of metal, ozone, and the faint sweetness of victory mixed with something that could never be named without diminishing it. The laboratory had gone silent long ago, its instruments asleep, the green indicator lights blinking like faint stars in an artificial sky. And yet Jack remained awake, eyes tracing the outline of Simon’s figure across the pale linen, as though every inch of that man’s repose held a riddle meant only for him to decipher.

Simon lay perfectly still, the kind of stillness that belongs not to rest but to vigilance disguised as it. The bedsheets fell over him like poured cream, and even in that vulnerable sprawl there was a geometry to him — a symmetry too precise to be accidental. Jack wondered, not for the first time, whether Simon ever truly slept, or merely pretended to surrender to the world as he observed it from behind those closed lids, always measuring, always calculating.

Jack’s gloved hand hovered above the sheet, the faint tremor of temptation twitching at his fingertips. How simple it would be to trace the slope of that collarbone, to follow the rhythm of the breath beneath it — slow, deliberate, each inhalation a secret he was not yet invited to share.

He thought — or perhaps felt, for the two were indistinguishable in his mind — that Simon’s very calmness was its own form of cruelty. There was no storm in that man, no sign of the tremors Jack himself endured. Simon’s control was immaculate, monastic, like the restraint of marble carved into human form. Ah, mon diamant, Jack whispered internally, you do not know how you shine in the darkness of my mind.

He spoke aloud then, voice softened to silk, his words drawn out as if afraid they might wake the world.
“Cara mía…”

The name curled through the air, and for a moment Jack thought it would die there — but no, a response, faint as the first breath of dawn: the subtle flicker beneath Simon’s eyelids, the almost imperceptible shift of his hand against the pillow.

Simon’s eyes opened, just enough to reveal that gray light within them — the color of morning fog. He looked, not startled, but aware, as if he had anticipated Jack’s whisper long before it was spoken. Then, with that same disarming serenity, he closed them again.

“Jack,” Simon murmured.

Jack felt the sound more than heard it. That voice, newly awakened, heavy with sleep’s residue, was slower, lower — as if filtered through smoke. It filled him like a poison he willingly drank, one he had manufactured for himself.

“Yes, Simon?”

Simon turned his head toward him, still without opening his eyes, his tone as calm as the steady pulse beneath his skin.
“You were like a beast, Jack.”

There was no judgment in it, no anger — only observation, delivered with that same detached precision Simon reserved for all things. But the words struck him nonetheless, like the echo of a confession.

Jack smiled then — not in amusement but in something deeper, stranger. The kind of smile one gives upon realizing he has been seen too clearly.

“A beast?” he echoed softly, as if tasting the word.

Simon did not reply. The silence between them seemed to expand, humming faintly with the leftover electricity of what had transpired hours ago — the confrontation, the blast of light, the way Simon had turned to watch him unleash the full measure of his power without so much as flinching.

“You scared me,” Simon said at last.

Jack blinked. It was so calmly stated that for a heartbeat he wondered if he had imagined it — but no, the words lingered, heavier than their simplicity allowed. To be told by him that he had inspired fear — oh, what a strange, exquisite form of intimacy that was.

Jack knelt beside the bed, his movement unhurried, deliberate, the motion of a man who knew the effect of each gesture. His gloved hand rose to Simon’s face, fingers brushing the line of his cheek. Beneath the fabric he could feel the warmth of that skin, steady, alive.

Simon did not flinch.

Jack’s thoughts folded inward, rippling like reflections in a mirror. How long had it been since he’d felt such stillness beside him — not the stillness of submission, but of trust, or perhaps something adjacent to it, something that could be mistaken for it by a fool.

“Do that again,” Simon said.

Jack froze.

The words were delivered in the same voice Simon used when directing a machine or adjusting a lens — neither pleading nor commanding, but factual, as if he were simply noting that the world made more sense when Jack’s hand moved against his skin.

He obeyed without answering, tracing once more the same path — jaw, cheek, temple — and beneath his touch he felt not resistance, but the faint shift of breath, a concession too subtle to name.

In that moment Jack understood — or believed he did, which was the same thing for him — that Simon’s calmness was not the absence of feeling but its most dangerous form. The man’s stillness was a mirror designed to reflect Jack’s madness back at him, clearer and sharper than he could bear.

He wanted to speak, to explain how beauty and ruin so often came hand in hand, but language, that fragile instrument of reason, failed him. Instead, he leaned closer until his breath mingled with Simon’s — not touching, not daring to close that last inch of air between them, because it was that space, that sacred hesitation, that made the world spin.

The hum of the city below drifted through the half-open window — the slow, distant rhythm of the metropolis, all chrome and promise and decay. Somewhere, a jazz record was spinning, and Jack thought that perhaps the entire night existed only to frame this silence.

Simon opened his eyes again, meeting his gaze directly this time for a few seconds. There was no tenderness there, no cruelty either — only understanding, as if both of them had seen, in the other, the same abyss, and neither wished to step back from it.

Jack smiled, not the smile of triumph but of recognition.

“Next time,” Simon said quietly, “don’t hold back.”

And before Jack could reply, Simon’s hand moved — a small, restrained gesture — brushing his wrist, stopping it just above the sheet, as though to remind him: control, always control.

Jack exhaled slowly, his pulse echoing the rhythm of the city’s distant heartbeat.

He whispered again, softer now, “Cara mía…”

Simon’s eyes closed once more, and for the first time that night, Jack was certain he was truly asleep.

Or perhaps only pretending — and in truth, what difference did it make?

For both of them, sleep was merely another form of watching.

Chapter Text

Jack saw the light before he saw the door.

A single circle of white, suspended in the dim gray of the holding room, humming faintly as if it too were tired of existing. It fell upon him without mercy, sculpting half his face into shadow — an irony he appreciated more than anyone in the building would ever know. The chain on his wrist clicked whenever he moved; the metal cuff glowed dully under the fluorescence, a parody of jewelry. He smiled faintly at that. An actor, even here, must never lose his audience — though tonight, the only witness was the silence itself.

He leaned back against the cold chair, closing his eyes for a moment. There, behind the lids, light became something else. Not this sterile white, but a warmer, chaotic flash — the glow of cameras, the glittering hunger of the crowd, the holy blindness of fame.

And suddenly the room was gone.

He was standing again before the crowd, a sea of faces shimmering behind glass lenses, their voices overlapping into one endless, senseless question. The air tasted of perfume and flashbulbs. His name — Jack! Jack! Mr. Jack! — burst from every mouth like prayer and accusation combined.

“Mr. Jack, how are you feeling about your upcoming film?”
“Mr. Jack, rumor says you’ve been seen with actress—”
“Mr. Jack, what do you think of the Supers’ gala next week?”

That last question cut through the clamor, crisp and careless, from a young woman near the front — a reporter with brown eyes with glimpses of green just like–

Jack’s smile faltered, just for a breath. He had perfected that smile — the tilt, the flash of teeth, the slight narrowing of eyes that told the camera he knew precisely how adored he was. But her question…

The Supers again. Always them.

He blinked, smoothed the irritation from his brow, and answered with the softness of silk over steel.
“Next time, darling,” he said, “ask about something worth remembering.”

The laughter around her was immediate — nervous, delighted. He turned, his polished shoes slicing through the red carpet, and for a moment the cameras captured what no one was meant to see: the exact second his mask cracked.

He was having a great day, he told himself. The kind of day when the air itself seemed to approve of his existence. But they — the papers, the fans, the world — could never stop talking about them.

The Supers.

They were born with their powers, blessed by chance or fate or whatever cosmic nonsense people believed in. Yet it was he who worked — he who starved, rehearsed, memorized, smiled until his jaw ached. He had sculpted his body for the screen, learned to become other men, learned the art of charm until it became indistinguishable from truth.

And still, at the end of the day, it was the Supers who made the front page.

He entered the agency building still wrapped in the fragile warmth of his vanity. The marble floor reflected his image back at him — the perfect suit, the golden cufflinks, the grin of a man who had turned ambition into art. He waved to the secretary, who blushed, and opened the door to his manager’s office.

“Where’s my favorite man in the business?” he declared, tossing his coat over the chair.

But the silence that greeted him wasn’t the kind that applauds.

The manager, a thick man with a precise haircut and a voice like gravel dipped in honey, did not look up from his desk. He simply said, “Jackson.”

Jack froze. The name — his real one, unsoftened by the charm of stardom — sounded like a verdict.

“That’s never a good start,” Jack murmured, forcing a smile. “If this is about last night, I swear, she was—”

“It’s about this morning,” the manager interrupted. “The reporters. The Supers comment.”

Jack laughed lightly, leaning on the edge of the desk. “Oh, that. It was a joke. The crowd loved it.”

The man looked up. His eyes were small, heavy with fatigue. “They didn’t love it, Jack. They’re writing about it. You’re trending — not because of your film, but because you can’t keep your mouth shut about the Supers.”

Jack straightened, the air cooling between them. “Since when do I have to worship them to keep my job?”

“Since the public worships them,” the manager replied flatly. “You don’t bite the hand that buys your posters.”

Jack laughed again, sharper this time. “So that’s it. You want me to play nice. Smile, wave, pretend I’m not sick of seeing them everywhere.”

“Pretend,” the manager said, leaning back, “is what you’re good at.”

The words hit him harder than they should have. Jack’s hand curled against the wood of the desk.

“You know what’s funny?” he said slowly. “They say Supers are heroes because they save lives. But I save people too — I save them from their miserable little selves for two hours in a dark theater. I make them believe they could be better, even if they can’t. But no, that doesn’t count. Not unless you wear a cape.”

The manager sighed. “You’re handsome, Jack. Charming. People like you because you make them forget. But they love the Supers because they make them hope they make them feel safe. And that’s a battle you’ll never win.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Jack’s reflection in the office window stared back at him — golden, smiling, hollow.

“Maybe,” Jack whispered finally, “hope is overrated.”

The manager looked at him, uneasy. “Just stay quiet for a while. Smile for the cameras. Be Jackson again — the one they pay to see.”

But Jack was already leaving, the door closing softly behind him.

The manager’s words trailed behind him like the smoke of a cheap cigar, sour and persistent, long after Jackson had closed the door.
Be Jackson again — the one they pay to see.
He almost laughed. The one they pay to see, he thought, was a ghost dressed in good suits, smiling as he decayed.

The afternoon light outside the agency was bright, almost arrogant in its clearness. This place had that kind of sun — polished, pitiless, and forever ready for the camera. It made everything look better than it was, which was perhaps why the city adored it so much.

Jackson walked fast, as though the rhythm of his shoes could drown out his anger. He nodded to a few people who recognized him — a man walking back from work with a grin that was all awe, a young woman with curls who blushed and whispered his name like a secret prayer. He signed two autographs, smiled, let the flash of admiration touch him like warmth through glass. Yes, there was still light for him somewhere. Maybe later, a woman would make the evening softer — he imagined a body to lean against, perfume to forget the manager’s voice, a gentle lie to tell himself that everything was fine.

But the feeling didn’t hold. Fame had its own loneliness, like champagne gone flat.

He crossed the boulevard and found himself before the Imperial Cinema — one of those grand art deco buildings with mirrors and gold trimming, the sort of place that made the city believe in itself. The marquee glowed above him in enormous letters: HANDSOME JACK — starring Jackson Hart.

He stopped. For a moment he almost smiled. His name — the name he’d fought for, starved for, kissed the right people for — shining there above the crowd. But then he saw the poster beneath it, the glass-covered portrait of himself in costume: the gleaming super-suit, the perfect jawline, the heroic pose beneath a painted sky.

Handsome Jack, the Super who saves the world with a grin and a punch.

He remembered the studio photographer that day, telling him to hold his chin higher, to look “just a bit more sincere.” He had done it because he always did what was needed, but the memory burned now, a mockery dressed as nostalgia.

He moved closer, until his reflection merged with the image behind the glass — his real face and the painted hero overlapping. The sunlight behind him made the illusion almost convincing: that he was that man, that the light adored him and the people believed in him. But the reflection had something else in it too, something the painted hero lacked — fatigue, a tremor around the eyes, the faint shadow of disappointment no makeup could erase.

He touched the glass lightly. The cool surface held his fingertips the way fame held him — with distance.

Behind him, laughter — the crowd spilling out of the matinee showing, their faces bright, animated by the same excitement that had once been his own. He heard a child shout, “I wanna be Handsome Jack!” and felt something twist inside him, something sour and small.

They loved him — or rather, they loved the illusion. But what they loved most wasn’t him at all. It was the Super.

He stood there longer than he meant to, until the light began to change and the edges of the poster caught the sunset like a wound.

“Why always them?” he murmured aloud, almost without realizing. “They aren’t that great. They just… exist.”

A woman passing by gave him a curious glance, but he didn’t see her. He was already lost in thought.

Police officers, firefighters, medics — no one built statues for them. No one printed their faces on trading cards. But if a man was born with heat vision or could fly, the world bent at his feet. Hypocrisy, he thought. The entire world had fallen in love with its own idea of salvation.

He turned away and began to walk, slowly now. The streets grew quieter the farther he went, the golden glamour of downtown giving way to narrower alleys, more modest shopfronts, the scent of oil and old bricks replacing the perfume of luxury. A neon sign buzzed overhead — OPEN ALL NIGHT — the hum so steady it felt like the city itself breathing.

He entered a diner, half-empty, the kind of place that smelled of coffee, cigarette smoke. The waitress recognized him — they always did — and smiled too brightly.
“Mr. Hart! Coffee?”
He nodded.

He sat by the window, watching the passing cars, the reflections of headlights sliding like ghosts across the glass. The radio behind the counter murmured: another news bulletin about the Supers saving a plane from crashing. The patrons applauded softly, as if it were a local baseball victory.

Jackson’s jaw tightened.

He stared down at the coffee. The surface trembled slightly in his hands.

It wasn’t that he hated them, not truly — it was that they made him feel unnecessary. Their existence turned effort into irrelevance. They were miracles by nature, and he was merely a man rehearsing his way into admiration. How could art compete with destiny?

After some time he left a tip on the table, though he didn’t finish the drink.

Outside, night had begun to settle — violet and heavy. The city’s glow rose up against the dark like a kind of defiance, every streetlamp and sign proclaiming, we are still here, still alive.

He wandered without destination, just letting his thoughts lead him. He remembered his first screen test — the smell of greasepaint, the heat of the studio lights. The director had told him, You’ve got something, kid — light loves you. He had believed it. For years, he lived for that light — fed by it, shaped by it, until he could no longer tell where the glow ended and he began.

Now the light had changed.

He found himself before a narrow alley, and for a strange moment he thought he heard applause again — not the roaring sound of theaters but the faint echo of something remembered. He closed his eyes and saw it: the stage, the flash, the laughter, the woman with green eyes asking about the Supers. Then, darkness. The memory twisted — light bursting, not from cameras but from flames.

His mind recoiled. The explosion — the one that would come later, the one that would ruin him — hovered just out of reach, waiting for its time.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his palm to his temple as if to steady his thoughts.

When he finally returned home, his apartment felt too neat, too arranged. The mirrors — there were always too many — watched him with silent indifference. He poured a drink, though he didn’t taste it, and sat before the window overlooking the city. From this height, the streets looked like arteries of light, pulsing softly through the dark.

He thought again of the poster, of his reflection trapped behind glass. Wasn’t that what he had always been — a reflection, an image of what others wanted to see?

He laughed then, quietly. “Handsome Jack,” he whispered to the empty room. “The Super who saves everyone but himself.”

The laugh turned into something else, softer, almost sorrow.

He reached for a cigarette, struck a match. The small flame flickered, its light catching his eyes. For an instant, he imagined the fire growing — filling the room, swallowing him whole — and the thought didn’t frighten him. There was something beautiful about the idea of vanishing in light.

He leaned back, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a performance no one had come to see. Outside, sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, another accident, another rescue, another story that would never belong to him.

He imagined the Supers arriving, their perfect smiles, their capes glinting in the firelight, the crowd cheering. Always the same story. Always the same ending.

And then — the sound of a camera shutter in his mind. The bright flash. The applause.

It all bled together — the fame, the fire, the failure — until it was impossible to tell what was memory and what was dream.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the light above him was no longer golden but white, harsh, mechanical.

The interrogation room.

The cuffs cold against his wrists.

The same silence, now heavier, now final.

He smiled faintly, as if waking from a dream that had already predicted its own ending.

So this was what remained of Jackson Hart — a man made of light, finally sitting in the dark.

The door handle turned.

He didn’t lift his head.

Chapter Text

Tik-Tok.
Tik-Tok.
Tik- Tok.

RIIIIIIIIING.

The sound was unnecessary. His eyes had been open for a while now, watching the dim light crawl along the curtain’s edge, tracing the dust that swayed in its slow golden orbit.

Hand on the clock. Silence again.

He rose, quietly. The floorboards made no sound, though he knew them well enough to expect where they would creak. He crossed the room, the same steps as always.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Bathroom door. Mirror. Tap.

The man in the glass looked back at him as if surprised to find him there — hair obedient, expression mild. Water. Toothpaste. Motion repeated, not lived. The mint tasted faintly metallic. He rinsed, dried, combed. His tie came next, drawn with exacting symmetry, a little too tight.

He checked his watch. The ticking was slower now, almost like breath.

Done.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Floor. Wall. Sky. Floor.

He paused at the window for a second — the street already murmuring below, a line of men in gray coats crossing toward the station. He watched just long enough for the light to sting, then looked away. His gaze fell to the desk, then to the shoes by the bed, his coat and then to the door.

Routine was a mercy, or at least something that could be mistaken for one.

He closed the door behind him and went down the stairs, each landing offering the same picture: the worn handrail, the smell of boiled coffee from another apartment, the faint hum of a radio trying to catch the morning news.

The city outside was colorless in its precision — people moving with purpose, as if someone had wound them up and set them loose. He joined them.

Step. Step. Step.

Street. Corner. Sign. Street.

He didn’t meet eyes. Not because he feared them — just because there was no need. Eyes demanded attention, and attention could burn.

By the time he reached the office, the day had already begun its performance. Phones ringing, the thin laughter of secretaries, the sharp rhythm of typewriters stitching the silence.

He hung his coat. Checked his briefcase. Papers in order. He walked to the coffee machine, its steady drip the only honest sound in the building.

Then — a voice.

A hand landed hard on his shoulder.

“Simon!”

He blinked, the motion cutting his thoughts in half. He turned slightly.

It was his superior — a large man, face already flushed with effort or drink, the sort who mistook volume for warmth. He filled the doorway as if the room couldn’t quite contain him.

“Oh, there you are,” the man said, cheerful in a way that always meant trouble. “I’ve been looking for you, boy.”

Of course he had.

Simon offered a polite half-smile. “Good morning, sir.”

“I was wondering…” The man stepped in, too close, his laugh spilling out before the sentence did. He smelled faintly of tobacco and cologne — the kind used to hide the other.

That man always wonders.

Floor. Wall. Ceiling. Wall.

“Since you’re the most reliable lawyer I know,” he continued, clapping Simon’s back with a heavy hand. “I’m sure this won’t be any problem to you.”

But it was for him. That was the point.

Ceiling. Floor. Wall.

Simon kept his expression steady. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Good, good.” The man grinned. “I’ve got something new for you. Big case. The Hart affair.”

Exit.

What?

Simon lifted his eyes — briefly, instinctively — meeting his superior’s for the first time. The man’s smile widened, pleased to have provoked even a flicker.

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? Jackson Hart — the actor. Used to play those Super pictures. The one who…” The superior gestured vaguely, a hand miming an explosion, his grin widening in the performance of gossip. “Unfortunate business. Anyway, the Bureau wants him represented. They think your… composure might help. You’re steady. You don’t talk much. That’s good. Clients like him need someone quiet.”

Wall. Wall. Exit. Exit.

Simon inclined his head slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“See?” The man laughed, satisfied with the illusion of obedience. “I knew you’d take it well. You’re the best for this. Couldn’t find anyone better.”

What a filthy liar.

Wall. Floor. Door. Window.

When the door closed again, Simon let out a breath, almost soundless. He looked down at the folder left on his desk — thick, official, heavy with the perfume of public disgrace.

Jackson Hart.

The name meant something — not admiration, not pity, but the faint electric memory of light across a cinema screen, of a man smiling too widely to be real.

He knew why they had chosen him. Because no one else wanted the case. Because Hart had become a liability, a spectacle, the kind of man people pretended not to recognize when they passed him on the street. Representing him would be a performance too, one destined to end in quiet humiliation.

He was still the youngest in the firm. The one whose desk was nearest the hall, whose opinions arrived politely and left unnoticed.

Window. Door. Pencil.

They must think he’s stupid.

Clock. Pencil. Briefcase.

He reached for the file. Paper, crisp and sterile. The photographs slid out first — charred debris, police lines, a blurred face under bright lights. Then the statements, the dates, the words unauthorized use of powers.

He read. Too quickly. Too closely.

When he finally looked up, the paper beneath his hand was marked — a blackened ring on one of the corners, like a wound trying to hide itself.

He turned it over, pressing it flat again. The wall behind the desk carried the faintest scent of heat.

He closed the window, sat down, adjusted his tie.

Maybe that was why he felt sorry for Hart — because in that man’s fall, there was something uncomfortably human. 

He pitied Hart — or understood him, though he’d never use the word aloud. Because a man adored for too long forgets the quiet. Because the fall from light is lonelier than the dark itself.

Still, that didn’t excuse him. Destruction never did.

Sympathy was useless. It didn’t absolve. It didn’t save.

Simon touched the edge of the burned page, smoothed it carefully, and kept reading.

One. Two. Three.

Step. Step. Step.

Words. Window. Silence.

The clock kept time. The world stayed still.

Tik—Tok.
Tik— Tok.

Tik-Tok…

…

The day arrived before Simon was ready for it—not in the sense that he feared it, but in that quiet, exhausted way in which one fears everything without daring to name it. He rose at the same hour as always, by the same soundless impulse that had guided all his mornings for years. Bath. Teeth. Suit. Hair combed with the same careful gesture. Coat. Glasses, cleaned not once but twice. He paused at the door, exhaled into the cold of his tiny apartment, and felt the draft curl around his ankles like something alive.

The sun hadn’t come out. The sky outside was a sheet of iron.
Perfect, he thought. A good omen for a worse day.

He checked his briefcase—documents, files, a few neatly folded notes—and stepped into the corridor. He descended the stairs with the familiar rhythm of someone who never quite knows if he’s awake or dreaming. Outside, the air was sharp, the kind of cold that makes the skin of the hands feel like paper. He walked quickly, head slightly bowed, gaze flicking in intervals: asphalt, sky, passing car, sidewalk crack. Never more than a second. Never long enough for heat to pool behind his eyes.

Some days—most days—he reached places without remembering the journey. Today was no different. He found himself in the office lobby before he even registered the building’s shadow falling over him.

Inside, he moved silently. Too silently, apparently. Before he approached the hall leading to his superior’s office, he caught fragments of a conversation. His boss’s voice, light and amused, and another—deeper, older. A police chief, judging from the clipped authority in each word.

“…this case is enormous,” the chief murmured. “And truth be told, more spectacle than trial.”

“Of course it is,” his superior replied with that laughter Simon always felt in his bones. Hollow. Too sharp. “The NSA practically drools over the chance to get Hart under a microscope. They’ll poke, test, measure—hell, maybe they’ll weigh his eyelashes.”

The chief didn’t laugh. “Still seems wrong. You’re sure the case is built to fail?”

“Absolutely. No one could win it.”

A pause.
Then, as if fate wanted to twist the knife:

“And, well—I put the youngest in the firm on it.”
A light tap, perhaps on a desk. “Kid doesn’t even look people in the eyes. Think a judge will like that? Think Hart will like that?”

Simon felt the words settle on him like ash. None of it surprised him; he had understood the nature of his assignment from the start. Still, hearing it spoken so plainly—he felt something small fold inside him.

He let his heel scrape the floor deliberately before taking another step. His superior’s cheerful façade snapped into place with almost comical speed.

“Simon! The very man I wanted to see.”
A side hug. A palm against his back. Too close. Too warm.
Simon nearly recoiled.

“You’re the only one who can win this case,” his boss declared, as if reciting lines from some cheap play.

Simon gave a small, tight nod.
The chief eyed him with that dismissive flicker Simon had grown accustomed to—eyes darting to his face, then away, then back again as Simon avoided direct contact. He smiled politely; he always smiled politely. He said only a few words. He rarely had more.

“Let’s go,” the chief said.

They boarded a police transport. Of course they did. Hart wasn’t kept in a normal prison, not after what had happened—what the news once glamorized and now whispered like a curse. The drive was long, and the silence inside the vehicle felt like another passenger wedged between them.

When they arrived, Simon stepped into a building that hummed with a sterile kind of vigilance. Guards scanned identification; metal detectors beeped softly; the air tasted faintly of disinfectant. The chief led them through corridor after corridor, each narrower and colder than the last. Simon noticed the walls—metallic, seamless. The ceiling, too. A material he didn’t recognize. Something designed to withstand… something. Someone.

Before he could study it longer, they ushered him forward.

Finally, they stopped outside a door that looked disappointingly ordinary. No window. No slot. No way to see inside.

You couldn’t see from the outside, Simon thought.

That realization pulsed through him, slow and unsettling.

“This is the room,” the chief said. “He’s inside.”

His tone was flat, but there was a tremor of unease beneath it.

“Hart is restrained,” the chief added. “Hands and legs. Special measures. Should prevent him from using anything he’d normally use.”

Should.
Not will.

“There will be two guards outside if you need help.”

Help, Simon echoed inwardly. Help with what?

He swallowed.

“Are there cameras? Audio?” he asked, attempting—futilely—to keep the worry out of his voice.

The chief barked a laugh. “We tried. Cameras melt. Audio devices short out. Hart is… sensitive.”

His boss chimed in, laughter bubbling like acid.
“Well, with the new look, he probably hates cameras anyway. Shame—he used to be ‘Handsome Jack.’ Now…”
A dismissive shrug. “Though I’d say he’s still got some charm left.”

Simon felt a thud of sympathy—uninvited, inconvenient, but real.
Still, that wasn’t what bothered him most.

If Jack could destroy every recording device…
If Jack could sense electronics…
If Jack reacted unpredictably to oversight…

Why send Simon inside alone?

He didn’t need to finish the thought. He already knew the answer. Everyone here did. It hovered in the hall like a shared secret none of them cared to name.

His boss slapped his shoulder again. Simon stiffened.

“We’ll talk with the chief about legal logistics,” the superior announced. “You go on ahead. And Simon—try to loosen up. What’s the worst that could happen?”
A smirk.
“Your dead?”

The door opened.
Simon stepped inside.

The door shut behind him with a finality that rang through his ribs.

That joke wasn’t funny, he thought.

The light was the first thing that greeted Simon—the same harsh white circle that had greeted Jack earlier. It cut the darkness like a surgical tool, revealing only what it wanted. A small metal table sat between two chairs bolted to the ground. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something else—something metallic and warm, like the aftertaste of friction.

Simon stepped inside, careful, almost soundless.
The door shut behind him with a heavy click.

Jack didn’t lift his head at first. He was leaning back, half his face sculpted in shadow—one half a memory of fame, the other half a reminder of destruction. He waited as though the silence itself were part of his performance.

When he finally looked up, his eyes gleamed in the half-light.
“Oh,” he said softly, “you’re not one of the guards.”

Simon didn’t answer immediately. He placed his briefcase gently on the table, opened it with the smallest of movements, and set out a tidy stack of papers. His gaze flicked: paper, cuff, floor, Jack, table leg. Always moving, always avoiding the dangerous lingering that might unleash something he didn’t want.

Jack watched him with growing amusement.
“You’re awfully calm,” he said. “Most people tremble when they walk in here. I suppose you’re trying to impress me.”

Simon looked up—just briefly—and shook his head. “No.”

Jack blinked.
He wasn’t used to “No” being said like that—quiet, neutral, as though the word were a simple fact of nature.

“So,” Jack drawled, “what are you? Lawyer? Therapist? Moral support? Someone sent here to tell me I’m actually a good person deep inside?” He smirked. “I’ll tell you a secret: I’m not.”

Simon’s hands rested lightly on the papers. “Mr. Hart, before we begin—”

Jack’s smirk widened.
“That’s cute. You don’t even know that’s my name.”

Simon paused.
He did know. He had heard all versions: Handsome Jack, Gamma Jack, Biohazard, the tabloid names, the whispered ones, the official ones. He had heard the myths and the embellishments, the victims’ testimonies and the fans’ devotionals.

But none of that mattered.

“I thought,” Simon said quietly, “it would be better if you said it yourself.”

Jack went still.
The room felt suddenly too small.

For one long second he wasn’t in his own body.
The distance between his fame and his fall became a chasm.
Then he startled back into himself with a quick inhale and a twisted half-smile.

“Well,” he said, “since you’re so politely asking… I’m Jack.” A beat. “Jackson Hart.”

Simon nodded once. “My name is Simon Paladino.”

Silence stretched, neither hostile nor kind—just… present.

Jack tilted his head. “You don’t seem very impressed.”

“It isn’t my job to be impressed,” Simon replied.

Jack laughed; not loud, but sharp. “Wow. You’re earnest. That’s new. Haven’t had earnest in months.”

Simon cleared his throat—a small, practiced gesture. “Mr. Hart, this session is meant to cover the general points of your case. The government, in coordination with the courts, has allotted us a limited number of dialogues. Today we should begin with the overarching charges—kidnapping of a reporter, destruction of private and public property, and the attempted killing of your representative.”

Jack’s jaw clenched at that last one, but he kept smiling—too widely, too teeth-baring.

Simon continued, unaware or indifferent. “Given the nature of your abilities and the time constraints set by the National Security Agency—”

Jack groaned loudly “Oh my God, you’re actually doing this.”

Simon stopped mid-sentence, eyebrows lifting the faintest millimeter. “Doing what?”

“Lawyer-ing at me,” Jack said. “With your little… textbook words.” He did try to mimic the quotation marks even though his wrists could barely move in the restraints. “‘Time constraints set by the NSA,’” he repeated in an exaggerated imitation of Simon’s soft tone. “Do you talk like that to real people? Or am I special?”

Simon blinked. “I assumed you would want clarity. If not, I can explain again. I apologize if my language—”

Jack cut him off, exasperated. “Please don’t say ‘language utilized in legal frameworks’ or something like that. I might actually die of boredom.”

Simon hesitated.
He hadn’t expected that to be the complaint.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It must have sounded boring.”

Jack stared at him—longer than necessary, longer than he usually allowed anyone to hold his gaze. Something in Simon’s tone unsettled him. It wasn’t sarcasm. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear.

It was sincerity, and he didn’t know how to weaponize that.

“Fine,” Jack sighed. “Explain again. Slower this time. Maybe I’ll pretend to care.”

Simon nodded and began in simpler words—then stopped again, because Jack’s eyes were drifting toward him, narrowing, sharpening. The ruined half of Jack’s face remained in shadow, making his expression difficult to read. Simon quickly looked away.

Jack noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Oh,” he said lightly—too lightly. “So that’s it.”

Simon froze. “What?”

“You’re not looking at me,” Jack said, leaning forward as far as the chains allowed. “You keep your eyes on the table, the wall, the floor. And I know why.”

Simon didn’t respond.

Jack laughed—but this time it cracked, fractured at the edges.

“You think I’m ugly.”

Simon looked at him, startled. “No—”

“Oh, come on,” Jack snapped, his voice rising. “Just say it! It’s fine. Everyone thinks it. Half my face melted off, congratulations, I’m a walking tragedy.”

He laughed again, hysterical but not quite. “I’m still the most handsome man in this country, Simon. Even at half-power. Fifty percent of perfection is still perfection.”

Simon remained still, breathing shallowly, waiting for the outburst to crest.

Jack’s voice climbed. “Go on. Say it. Say you can’t look at me.”

Simon finally spoke, softly. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Oh really?” Jack spat. “So what? You have some eye condition? You allergic to faces?”

Simon considered his options.
People always said he had no sense of humor.
They were right.
But sometimes—not often—he tried.

“If you want to see someone truly ugly…” Simon said carefully, “you should see my boss.”

Jack stopped mid-rant.
“What?”

Simon looked mildly horrified by what he’d said. “Please don’t repeat that. It was inappropriate.”

For two seconds Jack said nothing.
Then he burst into laughter—not manic, not cruel, but genuinely, richly amused. It echoed in the metal room like something breaking open.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed, “you actually said that. And you meant it.”
He seemed to want to wipe his eyes but he was restrained “You know what? Forget it. Your boss is probably ugly. Mine was too.”

Simon blinked. “Really?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jack said with almost cheerful bitterness. “Ugly in the soul and in the face. Tragic combination.”

A quieter silence followed—less stiff, less…

Simon returned to the papers. “If you’re ready… we can continue.”

“Sure,” Jack said, calmer now, exhaustion creeping into his posture. “Bore me.”

Simon began explaining again—slowly this time. Words like procedural exception, cross-jurisdictional review, compound sentencing, federal extraordinary cases statute of ’49, accelerated deliberation protocols flowed out of him with delicate precision. He tried to gauge Jack’s understanding, but Jack’s face was unreadable.

Finally Simon paused, flustered. “I’m… sorry. I don’t know if any of this is making sense to you.”

Jack shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Simon said.

Jack looked at him. Really looked.
His voice dropped.

“We’ll lose anyway.”

Simon opened his mouth to protest, but Jack cut him off with a sudden shift of tone, almost breezy:

“This place is boring as hell, you know. Nothing to do but think. Which is a dangerous hobby for a man like me.” He leaned forward. “So, Simon Paladino… what do you do for fun? Read books?”

“Yes,” Simon said simply. “I read.”

“And… what? No TV?”

“No.”

“No movies?”

“Not much.”

Jack stared at him, scandalized. “You didn’t watch my movies.”

Simon hesitated. He looked down. “No.”

Jack’s ego flared—but then Simon added, almost shyly:

“But I did listen to your radio drama. The one you did early in your career.”

Jack went still again.

“…You’re kidding.”

“No. I liked it. You were very good.”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly. “Nobody remembers that show. It ran for six months.”

Simon blinked. “It made an impression.”

For the first time, Jack didn’t know what to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like two men sitting in the same room for the first time.

Finally, Jack exhaled.
“Okay, Simon,” he said quietly. “Fine. Let’s keep going. Tell me more about this stupid case.”

And Simon did.

He kept explaining, gentler now but no less precise, moving from point to point with the careful rhythm of someone who had been taught early in life to measure every word before releasing it. Jack listened though “listened” was perhaps too generous a word; he drifted in and out of attention with the mercurial inconsistency of a man who had once lived surrounded by admiration and cameras and who now, in the stillness of confinement, felt the need to orchestrate even his own boredom.

Simon didn’t linger on anything for too long — he couldn’t — his gaze sliding from the corner of the table to the metal line on the floor to the faint shimmer in the overhead lamp. He caught flashes of Jack’s movement but never enough to piece together an expression. It made the work harder; he had always relied on the subtle shifting of another person’s eyes or jaw to adjust the speed of his explanations. Here he had nothing but Jack’s voice, quicksilver and mocking and alive.

At some point — Simon wasn’t sure how far into the session — he paused.
Not because he was overwhelmed or afraid, but because he had reached the limit of what could be accomplished without Jack’s full cooperation.

“That will be all for today,” Simon said softly, closing his folder.

Jack’s head snapped up. For the first time he truly paid attention, as though the end of the conversation carried more weight than its content. Then, slowly, he grinned.

“You know what I understood from all that?”

Simon waited.

“Three things,” Jack said, as if he forgot he couldn't lift  up three fingers as the restraints didn't allow that. “One: the United States legal system is even more screwed than I thought. Two: you talk like a man who secretly hates talking. And three—” he smiled with a mocking tone and… solemnity?, “—we’re doomed.”

He laughed. Loudly, richly. Laughed right at Simon’s face.

Simon didn’t blink.
He didn’t react.
He simply let the laughter pass over him like a draft of cold air.

Jack faltered, just for a second.
Then his voice lowered, becoming something different — sharper, more incisive.

“You don’t need to treat me like an idiot, you know.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tell me something, Paladino: are you the son of someone? Some judge? Some senator? Some rich old man whose money smells like old cigars and tax evasion?”

Simon blinked once, taken aback. “No.”

Jack just laughed. “Right, no, of course not. I’ve met those types. They walk like every hallway belongs to them. You don’t even walk like this room belongs to you.”

Simon’s silence was neither agreement nor denial. He simply stood there, hands folded, listening.

“So that means…” Jack leaned forward (as much as he could), studying him with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. “They just dumped this case on you, didn’t they? Sent a young lawyer to deal with the train wreck. Splendid. Very ethical of them.”

He tilted his head, almost tenderly mocking.
“And based on your comment earlier about your boss… let me guess. He hates you.”

Simon didn’t answer.
Jack laughed softly.

“Oh, he definitely hates you.”

Simon looked down at his papers as though they could shield him from the accuracy of Jack’s assessment. It wasn’t wrong. None of it was wrong. That was the worst of it.

“So tell me—” Jack’s voice sharpened, “—why the effort, Paladino? Or should I call you Simon?”

A long, measured breath before Simon spoke. “Whichever you prefer.”

Jack scoffed. “Both sound like you’re about to apologize for existing.”

Simon didn’t rise to the bait. He never did.

“So,” Jack continued, “why? Why do you care? Did they promise you something? Are they watching you right now to see if you follow orders? Do you think this case is interesting?” He leaned even further, eyes bright with a predatory amusement. “Do you think I’m interesting?”

“It’s not that,” Simon said quietly.

“No? Then what? You want to save me to prove something?” Jack’s voice was harsh, brittle. “To show them you’re a brilliant young lawyer with hidden potential? That your boss is wrong? That you’re not fragile or awkward or whatever it is they whisper about you in the hallways?”

Simon tried to reply. “I—”

Jack cut him off again.
“I’m waiting, Simon.”

The room felt denser, as though Jack’s impatience had its own gravitational pull. Simon took another breath, steadying himself as though he were about to step into cold water.

“Maybe I can’t save you,” he said at last.

Jack blinked.

“But,” Simon continued, “I can help you.”

The words were simple.
They were also the most honest thing he had said all day.

A silence followed — not empty, not tense, but suspended, as though the room itself were trying to understand that small sentence.

Then Jack let out a slow, incredulous laugh. “I see why your boss hates you.”

He leaned back, chains rattling softly. “You’re too good for your own good. That’s your problem.”

He looked at the foor. “Your time’s up. You should leave before the guards start wondering if I melted you.”

Simon nodded, gathering his papers with careful, practiced hands. He closed the briefcase without making any sound. “Goodbye, Mr. Hart.”

Jack’s voice cut in immediately.
“Jack.”

Simon paused.

“Call me Jack.”

Simon inclined his head a fraction, a gesture almost too subtle to register. “Goodbye, Jack. Until next session.”

The door opened behind him with a heavy hiss, the guards outside standing stiffly like statues. Simon stepped out without looking back. The door shut with an echo that vibrated faintly in his ribs again.

The return through the facility felt endless. The corridors were the color of resignation, the kind of grey that devoured memory. The guards walked ahead without speaking to him; none of them made eye contact, not that Simon would have met their gaze anyway.

They only drove him to the office and left him there. When he got out of the car, the air outside was cold enough to sting.
Rain had begun — not a gentle drizzle but a sudden, urgent downpour, as though the sky had waited precisely for Simon to walk out before letting go.

He stood for a moment beneath the overhang, briefcase clutched close, listening to the rain strike the pavement in relentless, uneven rhythm. Each drop seemed to echo something inside him — fatigue, uncertainty, the faint tremor of anger at being sent into that room like a disposable instrument.

He took a step forward, letting the rain hit his face.
His glasses fogged, blurred, cleared again.

No one was waiting for him.
No one asked how it went.
No one cared.

But Jack had called him Simon.
And somehow — impossibly, uncomfortably — that meant something.

Simon pulled up the collar of his coat and walked into the rain, the sound of it folding over him like an old, familiar blanket.

He lifted his briefcase above his head, the leather absorbing the  cold drops. He ducked beneath the awning of a closed shop, the metal gate pulled down, the glass behind it fogged by the sudden change in temperature.

Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone.

Something small moved near his shoe.

A dog.
A tiny dog.

A Yorkshire terrier — trembling, soaked through, fur clinging to its narrow frame like wet threads. Its ears flattened at every rumble of the rain. Its eyes were wide, reflective, silent.

It looked up at him.

…ah.

Simon glanced away immediately — glass panel, rain, his own shoe, the dog’s tail, the puddle forming by the step.

The creature was so small. If the rain worsened, if the street flooded even a little… a dog that size could drown. Quietly, invisibly.
Without anyone seeing.
Without anyone stopping it.

And he—
He couldn’t—
He wasn’t—

He wasn’t someone who saved things.
Or people.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.

He couldn’t trust himself.
He couldn’t trust his eyes.
He couldn’t trust the flicker behind them — the way a single second too long could turn into heat, into light, into—

The dog whimpered.

Simon’s throat tightened, so slightly he wasn’t sure anyone else would have felt it.

He turned his eyes toward the pavement left of the animal. “Go,” he murmured, soft, almost a whisper. “You should go.”

The dog shivered. Stayed.

Rain poured harder.
It pressed closer, like a curtain dropping.

He swallowed. He should walk home. Leave it. Composure. Logic. Practicality. He was not allowed pets in the apartment. He barely had space for himself. And the situation was ridiculous — utterly ridiculous — a lawyer at night, in a storm, contemplating the moral responsibility of a six-inch creature that didn’t even belong to him.

But—

If he couldn’t save,
he could help.

…couldn’t he?

Something softened — terribly, foolishly — inside him.

Before he could reconsider, before a rational thought could intervene, before caution tightened its noose around his good intentions, Simon crouched and lifted the tiny dog into his coat.

The fur soaked instantly through his shirt.

He didn’t look at it. Not directly. His gaze flicked — pavement, corner of coat, a brass button, the dog’s ear, the wet ground again. One second each. No more.

And then he ran.

Stepstepstepstepstep—
The briefcase above his head.
Coat pressed to his chest.
The rain slicing at his sleeves.

The streetlights blurred as he passed them, too bright, too fractured. The water on the sidewalk reflected each lamp like a trembling sun. By the time he reached his building, he was drenched entirely — hair, shoulders, cuffs, everything.

The stairs were narrow and slick, each step a hazard.

Step.
Step.
Step.

He tightened the coat around the dog. The animal was barely a weight in his arms. Hardly anything at all.
Yet he held it as though it were breakable.

Finally, his door.

He fumbled with the key, breath unsteady, glasses clouded with rain.
The lock clicked.
He entered.

Warmth enveloped him. The quiet of his tiny apartment felt almost unfamiliar after the storm.

He shut the door behind him and exhaled, long and steady. The dog squirmed faintly, paws tapping against his chest.

“Just a moment,” he murmured.

He placed the dog gently onto the rug — though he didn’t linger. He never lingered.
He went to fetch a towel.

Cabinet.
Towel.
Return.

He knelt on the floor, glasses still fogged, hair dripping onto the carpet. The dog blinked up at him, trembling.

Simon reached out carefully, slowly — just long enough to locate the dog’s outline. Then he looked away, focusing on the motion instead of the creature.

The towel wrapped around it.

Tiny bones beneath terrycloth.
A faint shiver.
A faint trust.

“Let’s… clean you up,” he said, voice soft, barely above the hum of the radiator.

He dried the dog’s head, its back, its thin legs. Mud smeared onto the towel. The poor thing must have been wandering for days. A stray — forgotten, overlooked, dismissed.

Simon felt something twist in him, sharp and quiet.

Maybe this was a bad idea.
Maybe he’d brought trouble into his already narrow life.
Maybe he’d be reprimanded by the landlord.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He carried the dog to the bathroom, keeping his eyes on the faucet rather than the creature itself.

He filled the small basin with warm water.
Not hot.
Not cold.
Something in-between.

He set the dog in carefully.

The puppy trembled again, then relaxed, tiny paws touching the water with a soft splash.

Simon washed it gently — always glancing away, always cautious, each second timed so nothing slipped.
So nothing burned.
So nothing repeated.

He felt ridiculous and frightened and… something he could not name.

When he finally wrapped the dog again and lifted it out, the small creature pressed its face to his shirt — hesitant, uncertain, trusting anyway.

Simon froze.

He lowered his gaze — to the creature’s ear, not its eyes — and whispered, “You’ll be alright. I’ll… figure something out.”

The dog made a tiny sound.
Not quite a bark.
More like acknowledgment.

Simon sat on the edge of his bed, soaked clothes cold against his skin, a small dog bundled in a towel beside him.

He stared at the floorboards — lines in the wood, faint scratches, dull reflections.

He had helped.
Not saved.
Not changed anything large or important.

Just helped.

He didn’t feel proud.
He didn’t feel heroic.
He didn’t feel redeemed.

He just felt… tired. And strangely steady.

The rain continued outside — a soft, persistent hiss.

Shhhhhhhh—

He set the dog carefully onto a spare pillow.
It curled into it, as though pillows were things it had always known.

Simon turned off the lamp.