CHAPTER 2 : STRANGERS AND SHADOWS

Jack reached for his coat, pausing by the hallway mirror. The reflection staring back at him was still unfamiliar. A different body, a different face. Thirty-two lives, thirty-two deaths, and he still felt like a stranger to himself. His fingers brushed the edge of the glass, as though searching for something tangible, something real. But there was nothing. Just him, and the weight of his endless restarts.

He turned away, pulling the coat tighter around him as he stepped into the bustling streets of London. The damp chill clung to the air, the kind that seemed to soak into your bones. He moved mechanically, letting the crowd carry him forward. His thoughts churned, circling back to the phone call.

"Abbey Road. Six p.m. Come alone."

A woman's voice. Calm, but with an edge of urgency that had lodged itself in his chest. Who was she? What did she know? His mind raced through possibilities, but nothing made sense. He couldn't afford to trust anyone—not after thirty-two lives.

Jack hailed a cab, his hand trembling slightly as he opened the door. "Abbey Road," he muttered, sinking into the back seat.

The cab threaded through the city, the blur of lights and shadows outside matching the chaos in his mind. His pulse quickened as they drew closer to his destination. What if this was a trap?

"Abbey Road, sir," the driver announced, pulling to the curb.

Jack stepped out into the fading afternoon light. The street was quieter than he expected, the usual swarm of tourists reduced to a handful of stragglers. The famous zebra crossing looked almost surreal in the soft haze of twilight. He scanned the area, but nothing seemed out of place—rows of shops, ordinary homes, the hum of distant traffic.

He began walking, his boots clicking against the damp pavement. Minutes passed before he heard it.

"Jack."

The voice was soft, almost swallowed by the evening air. He froze, turning toward the alley where the sound had come from. A shadowy figure lingered at the entrance, a faint silhouette against the dim light. The figure gestured for him to follow.

Every instinct told him to turn around, to walk away. But he was already here, and curiosity—or desperation—pulled him forward. He stepped into the alley, keeping a cautious distance.

The figure led him through a maze of narrow passageways until they reached a half-constructed building. The sharp smell of cement and metal filled the air. Jack hesitated at the entrance, scanning the dim interior. His eyes caught movement—a woman perched on a steel beam, partially hidden in the shadows.

"Hi, Jack," she said, her voice carrying an unexpected warmth.

Jack's hand twitched toward his pocket, where his knife rested. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

The woman slid down from the beam, her movements graceful but deliberate. As she stepped into the light, Jack's breath caught. Her fiery red hair was unmistakable, as was the tired, haunted look in her eyes.

"It's nice to see you again," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jack stared, his mind racing. He knew her—or at least, he thought he did. "Who are you?" he asked again. "How do you know me?"

Her smile faltered, and she raised her hands slightly, as though trying to calm him. "Don't be afraid. My name is Emma Johansen. I know a lot about you, and I want to help."

Jack's stomach tightened. "Help me?" He laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the empty space. "No one can help me."

"I can," she insisted, her voice steady but gentle. "I know what's happening to you. And I know you're in danger."

"Danger?" Jack's eyes narrowed. "What kind of danger?"

Emma glanced toward the street, her expression tense. "Not here," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She reached into her pocket and handed him a small slip of paper. "Meet me here tomorrow. I'll explain everything."

Jack barely had time to process her words before her eyes darted toward the sound of a car approaching. The hiss of tires on wet pavement made her flinch. "You need to run," she whispered, her voice urgent.

"What are you—"

"Run, Jack!" she shouted, backing away as the sound of heavy boots echoed in the distance.

Jack didn't wait for an explanation. He bolted, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he raced through the alleyways. His boots skidded on the slick cobblestones, but he didn't stop. Behind him, shouts and hurried footsteps grew louder. He didn't dare look back.

He turned a corner, the dim glow of streetlights flickering above him. His apartment building loomed ahead, and he sprinted toward it, throwing himself through the door and slamming it shut. His chest heaved as he locked the deadbolt and pulled the curtains closed.

He peered through a small gap, his hands trembling. The street outside was quiet, but paranoia gnawed at him. They could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.

Jack sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall. His head throbbed, a sharp, searing pain that made him wince. He crawled to the bedside table, fumbling for the bottle of scotch he kept there. The burn of alcohol was a cruel comfort, dulling the edges of his panic.

He sat on the bed, the crumpled piece of paper still clutched in his hand. His mind raced. Who was Emma? Why did she care? And could he trust her?

Despite his best efforts, exhaustion pulled him under. His body sagged against the bed, the slip of paper falling to the floor. The last thought that crossed his mind before sleep claimed him was simple, yet devastating: No one can be trusted.