Morning sunlight filtered through the tattered curtains of Jack's room, but the warmth it offered didn't reach him. He awoke with a start, heart hammering as if he'd been running for miles. Sweat clung to his body, the sheets beneath him damp and clinging to his skin. For a moment, he couldn't tell if the chill he felt was from his body or something else. The sensation lingered, faint but unshakable, like the ghost of a hand pressed against his chest.
Jack's hand shot to his ribs, fingers splaying across the space where the feeling centered, as though confirming he was still whole. Yet something felt off, a faint, unshakable wrongness. It wasn't pain, not exactly—it was more like something inside him had been stretched too thin, like a thread pulled taut and ready to snap. The memory hit him with the force of a blow, and his breath hitched.
The Mist. Those whispers. That pull. The weight of it bore down on him, and he sat upright, staring at his hands as if they held answers.
But they didn't.
His gaze darted to the letter on the bedside table. The crumpled paper glared back at him, its warning etched into his mind like a scar. "Within you lies a power that must never awaken." He reached for it, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers, as though making the words legible again would change their meaning.
What did you mean? The question rang through his mind, silent and desperate.
The Mist had felt alive. Not just alive, but aware. Its tendrils had curled around him like something waiting, watching. Yet Jack couldn't shake the certainty that it wasn't the power the letter had warned about. He was sure of it now. The Mist wasn't the source of the danger—it was a symptom. A doorway. Something else lay beyond, waiting on the other side.
His hands were trembling. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, his knees shaky beneath him. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, their sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners, and Jack could have sworn they shifted, retreating from the weak light of day. He turned his hands over, his breath catching as his gaze locked onto something he hadn't noticed before—a faint, glowing mark on his left palm.
The mark was circular, its edges jagged like shattered glass. Intricate lines radiated outward, forming a pattern that seemed almost alive. As Jack stared, the mark pulsed faintly, the rhythm matching his own heartbeat.
Panic surged through him. He rubbed at the mark, trying to smear it away, but it remained stubbornly etched into his skin, glowing faintly even as his efforts grew frantic.
"What… is this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The mark offered no answers, but its existence only solidified the realization that had been creeping into his mind since waking: the Mist wasn't done with him. Whatever it was, whatever had happened, he hadn't escaped it.
Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting on his knees, the glowing mark still faintly visible against his skin. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm. The sensation of being pulled—of something tugging at his very essence—lingered, faint but undeniable, and now he knew it wasn't going to stop.
He closed his eyes, letting the memory of the Mist resurface. The whispers. The chill. The pull. It was still there, faint but insistent, like a thread stretched between worlds. Jack focused on it, his mind reaching out, searching for the connection.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, the thread snapped taut.
A jolt shot through his body, his eyes snapping open as the room seemed to blur around him. That same unsettling sensation of disconnection overtook him, as though his body had become an anchor for something that was no longer entirely within it.
The Mist stirred at the edges of his perception, its tendrils curling lazily as if waking from slumber. Jack's breath quickened, his pulse hammering in his ears. He tried to steady himself, but the pull was stronger this time, relentless and overwhelming, and panic welled up inside him.
"Stop," he gasped, jerking backward. The connection severed abruptly, and he collapsed onto his side, clutching his chest. The mark on his hand pulsed once, faint but insistent, before fading back to its original glow.
The whispers stayed with him, faint and distant, curling at the edge of his hearing. Jack could feel their weight pressing against his thoughts, weaving through the cracks in his fractured identity.
Did Clara and Eli see this? The thought struck him like a flash of lightning, and he froze. They had seen him after the Mist's first appearance. Had they noticed anything unusual about him? Had they sensed the shift? Or was it all happening on a plane they couldn't perceive?
The confrontation with Eli replayed in his mind—those narrowed eyes, sharp with suspicion. Clara's quiet observation, her gaze heavy with questions she hadn't voiced. Jack had dismissed it then as paranoia. Now, he wasn't so sure.
A faint whisper broke through the haze of his thoughts. It wasn't a memory, not this time.
"You were always here."
The words were faint, distant, but unmistakable. Jack's chest tightened, his hands balling into fists. He looked around the room, his eyes darting to every corner, but there was nothing. The Mist wasn't just a presence—it was aware of him.
The pull grew stronger as the day wore on, a silent hum at the edge of his perception that refused to let go. Jack could feel it every time he moved, every time he thought, like a current dragging him toward something unseen. He tried to ignore it, but it only grew worse.
That night, when the orphanage fell silent, Jack couldn't take it anymore. He sat at his desk, a blank notebook open before him. His hands trembled as he picked up a pen, the word "Resonance" echoing in his mind, unbidden and insistent. It felt tied to everything that had happened—the Mist, the mark, the pull.
"What does it mean?" he whispered, his voice breaking the stillness of the room.
He scrawled the word onto the page, his handwriting jagged and uneven. Beneath it, he began listing everything he knew—or thought he knew—about the Mist.
The Mist isn't the power in the letter.
The Mist is a doorway, not a source.
It's connected to me—or to Amon.
It's aware of me. Watching me.
His pen hovered over the last point. He glanced at his left hand, where the mark still glowed faintly beneath his sleeve.
He pressed the pen to the paper again, writing slowly.
The mark appeared after the Mist. It's a connection. A thread.
The word "Resonance" came to him again, unbidden. He underlined it, his grip tightening on the pen.
The pull became unbearable. Jack set the notebook aside and closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. He reached out again, his mind brushing against the thread of connection. It snapped taut, and the Mist surged forward, a wave of cold and whispers that threatened to engulf him.
This time, he didn't sever the connection.
Jack's breath came in shallow gasps as the world around him blurred, the Mist curling at the edges of his perception. For a moment, he felt the presence on the other side—something vast, ancient, and aware.
It didn't speak, but Jack felt its intent. It had been watching him all along.
"You are not ready, Jack."
The whisper was low and distant but unmistakable. Jack's eyes darted around the room, his heart pounding. The feeling of unseen eyes was unbearable now, pressing against him like a weight.
The mark on his hand pulsed once more, sending a jolt through his body that left him gasping. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the desk. His hands trembled, clutching the edges of the notebook.
He stared at the page, at the word "Resonance" scrawled across it.
"What does it mean?" he whispered again, his voice barely audible.
The Mist offered no answers. Only silence.