Critical Control

Jack jolted awake, a scream clawing at his throat, his body drenched in sweat and trembling violently. Pain shot through his skull, waves of fire pulsing with every heartbeat. His hand shot out, groping blindly for the bottle of scotch on his nightstand. He took a long, burning gulp, feeling the liquor sear down his throat, and exhaled as the pain began to recede. His breathing slowed, but the tremors in his hands remained, a constant reminder that something was horribly wrong.

He turned toward the mirror beside his bed, locking eyes with the unfamiliar face that looked back. This wasn't the first time. A month ago, he'd woken up in a stranger's body, with only the fragmented memory of his own death, a number tatoo marked one over forty on his arm and a gnawing ache in his head to anchor him to the reality he'd once known.

That day still haunted him. It had been a blistering Thursday afternoon, the kind of day that felt like it would last forever. Jack had been rushing in his faded suit and crooked tie, desperate to make it to work on time. He cut through an alley, hoping to shave off a few seconds, and rounded a corner—only to freeze in place. A masked man stood there, a gun aimed directly at him. Jack's breath caught, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he recognized the figure. But it was too late. The gunshot shattered the air, and the world went black.

Then, he woke up again. His head pounded like a drum, but this time, he wasn't Jack Mason. He was someone else. In a new body.

That was just the beginning. Since that first death, he'd died and been reborn thirty-one times. Each time, in a new body. Each time, with the same crushing headache and the growing number of his tatoo which gave him the terrifying knowledge that he was living on borrowed time. Today, as he steadied his breath and pulled his coat from the hook, he could only hope—pray, even—that this would be the time the cycle broke.

For weeks, Jack had searched for answers. He'd scoured books, articles, and any scraps of information he could find, but the mystery only deepened. It became clear that the key to ending this nightmare lay in discovering who—or what—was killing him. He retraced his steps every day, hunting for any clue that might lead him to the masked man. And then, one detail surfaced, something he hadn't noticed at first: the words Contra Mundum—Latin for "against the world." The first time, he'd seen them tattooed on the masked man's arm. After that, they appeared everywhere—on a car, a cup, a flickering TV screen—just before every death.

It had led him to whispers of a shadowy organization operating beneath London's surface. Today, he hoped a visit to an antique shop would bring him closer to the truth.

As Jack turned to leave, the phone rang, cutting through the silence like a knife. He hesitated, then picked up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice was uncertain, expecting no one. At first, there was nothing but silence and the soft, steady sound of breathing on the other end. Then a woman's voice, low and cold, sliced through the tension:

"Abbey Road… six p.m… don't be late. And, Jack… come alone."

The line went dead. Jack stared at the phone, his heart pounding in his chest. Who was she? How did she know his name? A sinking feeling settled deep in his stomach, a sense of dread so familiar it was almost comforting. Fear. The kind that had chased him through each life, each death. He considered going to the meeting—what choice did he have?—but could he really trust a stranger who knew so much?

The shrill beep of his alarm snapped him out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch—nine a.m. "Plenty of time," he muttered. "Plenty of time to check out the antique store first."

Jack stepped into the cool morning air, hailing a cab. As it rattled through the streets, his mind kept returning to the phone call. Who was the woman? Why did she want to meet him? What did she know? His thoughts swirled in confusion until the driver's voice broke the silence: "We're here, sir."

Jack paid, stepped out, and crossed the street to a small, cluttered shop: Flintlock Antiques. The bell above the door jingled softly as he entered, his eyes scanning the room. He couldn't shake the habit of checking for prying eyes, his years of paranoia weighing on him.

A frail, hunched man looked up from behind the counter, squinting. "Who's there?" His voice rasped, a lifetime of age embedded in every word.

"Jack Mason. I called about a particular ring." Jack's voice was steady, despite the quickening beat of his heart.

The old man shuffled toward a shelf, retrieving a small box. He placed it on the counter. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a worn gold ring with the words Contra Mundum engraved along its band.

Jack's lips curved upward, a smile of grim satisfaction. This was it—the proof that the shadowy organization was real. He paid the shopkeeper, slipped the ring into his pocket, and left.

By the time Jack stepped out, the morning had slipped into midday. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten. Across the street, he spotted a café. He ducked inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the crisp air. Behind the counter, a red-haired barista stood, her face tired but still carrying a quiet beauty.

"Next!" she called, and Jack stepped forward, trying to suppress the flutter of nerves in his chest.

"A coffee and two scones, please," he said, trying to sound casual.

As she prepared his order, Jack fumbled with his wallet. The ring slipped from his pocket, clattering to the floor. He didn't notice, but she did. She bent down, picked it up, and studied it for a moment before handing it back with a faint smile.

Flustered, Jack took the ring and his order, muttered a thank you, and left.

Back outside, he hailed another cab, his mind wandering back to the barista. She was pretty. I should've asked for her number. But that thought died as quickly as it had appeared. There's no point. I'll just die again.

When Jack reached his apartment, he noticed something out of place: the handle of his door had been tampered with. His instincts kicked in, and he immediately reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the cold steel of a pocket knife. He wasn't going down without a fight.

He barged into the apartment, ready for an intruder. But then he stopped, frozen at the sound of a voice.

"Jesus Christ… you scared me, Jack!"

It was Mrs. Harrison, the elderly widow who owned the apartment. She stood in the middle of his room, her hands pressed to her chest, gasping for air. She had been pacing, lamenting the state of his apartment, her disapproval clear.

Jack let out a sigh. "What are you doing here?"

Mrs. Harrison gave him a sheepish smile, as though caught in the act. "I just wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself," she said, her voice quivering slightly.

Jack arched an eyebrow, watching her with suspicion. "Do you check on all your tenants?"

She smiled softly, then gave him a light slap on the shoulder as she moved past him. "No, not all of them. Just you."

She paused at the door, turning back to him. "Take better care of yourself. Your place is a mess."

With that, she left, leaving Jack standing alone in the room, the unsettling feeling of being watched hanging in the air.

Jack stared at the door for a long moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Mrs. Harrison's unexpected appearance left him uneasy. Her words still hung in the air: Just you. Was she keeping an eye on him for some reason? Or was he just being paranoid? Either way, his mind was already on the woman's cryptic phone call. The clock was ticking, and he had to get to Abbey Road. He hurried through his dinner and left for the address.