Genesis. Volume 2

October 31, 1986. London. Kane's hideout, the ritual hall. Jack woke to someone pulling him by the wrist. Not by the hand—by something inside. By a thread he couldn't see but could feel like a hook beneath his ribs. It hurt. Not like a cut or a bruise. Differently. As if something that was supposed to stay inside was being pulled out of him—slowly, centimeter by centimeter, careless of what tore along the way. He opened his eyes. Gray light. Stone floor streaked with ash. Someone's boots—black, polished, without a speck of dust. His own knees—they scraped along the stone, leaving dark, wet trails. He was being dragged. Toward the altar. Jack's shoes were scuffed, the left toe torn open, his big toe sticking out, and he could feel the cold stone on his skin. "Get up," Kane said. He didn't help. Didn't lift. He just tugged the thread, and Jack's body obeyed—jerkily, convulsively, like a puppet whose strings are yanked without regard for how its limbs are bent. Jack tried to break free. He couldn't. His arms wouldn't obey. One—the right—had hurt ever since he'd fallen from the ceiling. Was his shoulder dislocated or broken? He didn't know. He couldn't check—his arm hung limp, and every movement sent a dull, nauseating pain through his collarbone. "I need you," Kane said. "Your... tenant." "Get lost," Jack rasped. His voice was foreign. Dry as old paper, like leaves crumbling in your fingers. Kane didn't answer. He tugged again. Jack fell onto his side, his head hitting the stone—his temple met the slab, and white flashed before his eyes. The taste of blood filled his mouth. His own? Someone else's? He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Or drunk. His throat was raw, as if he'd been swallowing sand. They stopped at the altar. Black stone, polished to a mirror shine—it reflected the gray light, distorted, fractured. In the center, a symbol—lines intertwined, feeding into each other, and the eye slid off, unable to hold. Jack stared at it and didn't recognize it. Something familiar? Or not? He'd seen it somewhere. Maybe in a dream. Maybe in the time that had been erased. Kane turned him—roughly, in one motion. Jack ended up on his back on the altar, the cold stone beneath his shoulder blades, beneath his skull. The cold seeped through his clothes, reached his spine. He tried to sit up. His muscles tensed, trembled—and gave up. He couldn't. "Lie still," Kane said. He took Jack's right wrist. His fingers were dry, hot, with a surprisingly strong grip. He twisted. Slowly, methodically, as if unscrewing a lid. A crack. Dry, distinct, like a twig snapping. Jack screamed. Not in fear—in pain. Pure, mechanical, unritualistic pain. The pain of a twisted joint that leaves no room for thought. It filled everything—from his wrist to his jaw, to his temples, to the tips of his toes. "Quiet," Kane said. He moved to his elbow. His thumb pressed exactly on the joint, pushing down. "No..." Crack. Louder this time—the elbow resisted more. Jack bit his lip. His teeth broke the skin, blood ran down his chin—hot, salty. He couldn't taste it, only felt the warmth. "Crowley," Kane called. His voice was matter-of-fact, as if calling someone from the next room. "I know you can hear me." Silence. Only the ringing in Jack's ears from the pain—high, thin, like a mosquito's whine. "Come out." Nothing. Kane pressed on his shoulder—where the joint no longer held, where the bone moved freely under the skin. Jack screamed again. His voice broke, became thin, like an animal caught in a trap. The echo bounced under the dome, returned distorted. "He won't come out," Jack rasped. "He... doesn't obey you." "He obeys whoever is stronger. And you are weak." Kane released his arm. It fell to the stone—lifeless, foreign, no longer his. His fingers were twisted unnaturally, his palm turned out. Jack tried to move them—he couldn't. The hall was quiet. Somewhere—he couldn't turn his head, his neck wouldn't obey—someone was there. His people. Strangers? He heard breathing. Rapid, frightened. Someone sobbed. Someone had passed out? He didn't know. He couldn't look. "Crowley," Kane called again. This time, steel crept into his voice, a hint of irritation. "I'm offering you a home. A new one. Stronger than this one. You deserve better than a vegetable who's forgotten his own name." Jack felt it—inside. A rumble. Weak, distant, like a radio in the next room when you can't make out the words, only the bass. Crowley was listening. Not answering, but listening. And that rumble was familiar—Jack had heard it always, from that night in the mansion's basement, when he'd stopped being himself. "Don't," Jack whispered. His lips barely moved, blood from his chin dripping onto the stone. "Not your decision." Kane placed his palm on Jack's chest. Where his heart used to be. Now there was something else there. An emptiness in which someone else lived—alive, dense, warm. Kane's palm was hot, almost scalding, and Jack felt something stir inside. "Come out," Kane repeated. The rumble grew louder. Now Jack heard it not only inside—it seemed to fill the hall, echoing off the walls, pressing against his ears. Jack closed his eyes. In the darkness beneath his lids—no faces, no memories. Only the sound. Low, steady, like a hammer blow. He'd heard it always. From the moment he'd stayed in the mansion's basement. Sometimes quieter, sometimes louder. When Crowley was angry, the rumble became jagged, sharp. When he was quiet, it was steady, almost lulling. But it never stopped. "Are you there?" he asked silently. The rumble didn't answer. But Jack knew—yes. He opened his eyes. Sat up. With his left hand, because his right didn't work—it hung limp, his shoulder throbbing with pain. He grabbed Kane's wrist—surprisingly strong, like a drowning man clutching the side of a boat. Kane didn't expect it—he flinched, but didn't pull free. His skin was dry and hot, and Jack could feel someone else's pulse beating under his fingers. "You won't have him," Jack said. His voice was quiet, but firm. "He's not yours." "He belongs to no one. He's a parasite. He'll choose whoever gives him strength." "He chose me." "Because you had no choice." Jack smiled. Blood on his lips, on his teeth—the smile was red, gruesome. "I always had a choice. I just didn't tell you." He released Kane's hand. Kane stepped back—not in fear, but in confusion. In his eyes—for the first time—something like bewilderment flickered. Jack raised his left hand. His fingers touched his temple—Lisa's gesture. He'd seen it hundreds of times: when she drew, when she made decisions, when she drew a circle at the last moment, rubbing her fingers raw. She didn't know he'd remembered. He hadn't known he'd remembered. But his fingers found the right place—the pads on his temple, exactly where the skin was thinnest and the pulse could be heard. "Thank you," Jack thought. "Not for me. For her." The thought wasn't for him. For the one who lived inside. Crowley heard—the rumble grew louder, steadier, as if someone was tuning an instrument before a concert. "Goodbye." Jack didn't know who he was saying goodbye to. Himself? Crowley? The memory of a mother who had never been his? The warm, vague memory of a woman who smelled of apples and vanilla—a stranger's memory, one he'd carried for a year and couldn't let go of, because it was the only warm place inside him? Maybe to all of it at once. He let go. He simply stopped holding on. The way you let go of a balloon—you open your fingers, and it flies away. The warm memory flared one last time—bright, for a second. A face. A woman. A smile—slightly crooked, with a dimple on her left cheek. The smell of apples and vanilla. Then—emptiness. Jack opened his mouth. Something dense, gray, almost tangible tore from his throat. A cloud. Not smoke—too heavy. Not dust—too alive. It rose above him, hovered for a second, as if choosing direction. Then it shot forward. Into Kane. Kane didn't have time to recoil. The ash entered him through his chest—not stabbing, not striking. Just entered. Like water into sand. Kane jerked, arched—for a second his face twisted, his lips parted—but he didn't scream. He only exhaled—long, with a whistle. Jack fell onto his back. His shoulder hit the stone, and he didn't scream—only exhaled. Long, loud, as if releasing the last of the air he'd been holding inside for years. Crowley was gone. He knew it—didn't hear the rumble, didn't feel the weight. Only emptiness. But not the cold kind that had been there before him. A different one. Quiet. Like a room after the furniture has been moved out. Empty, but clean. In that silence, he could hear his own heartbeat—slow, tired, but alive. Jack stared at the ceiling. Gray stone, cracks. Somewhere nearby—voices. Shouting. He couldn't make out the words. Then someone's hand touched his forehead. Cold, but not hostile. The fingers were thin, careful—they touched his skin the way you touch old paper that might crumble. He closed his eyes. His eyelids were heavy, as if weights were tied to them. "Jack?" Lisa's voice. Quiet, cracked. "Jack, can you hear me?" He wanted to say yes. He couldn't. He only moved his fingers. The left ones. The right wouldn't obey. "He's here," Lisa said to someone. "He's alive." Someone exhaled. Not him. Jack sank into darkness. Dreamless. Soundless. Without the hammer that had pounded in his chest for a year. The silence was so deep he could drown in it. For the first time in a year—silence.