With a swift motion of his finger, the boss sends Jack away. The two men drag him like a rag doll, grimacing when his blood gets on their clothing. With black surrounding his vision, the Irishman dances on the brink of unconsciousness. Every draft of air that passes stings like needles in his open wounds and every step sends jolts of pain through his body.

They reach his room and Jack is tossed inside. Unable to stand on his own, the villain falls to the ground and lies there. The two men don't even glance at him as they turn around and head back down the hallway. As soon as his door clicks shut, he allows himself to curl into a ball and cry until he can't cry anymore.

The door swings open, but Jack can't bring himself to look. For all he knows, it could be the boss coming in to beat him again. But, if it's the next day, why hasn't he bled out yet? A familiar British voice curses, a warm hand being placed on his back seconds later. Jack flinches at the touch, causing the hand to retract.

"What the hell did they do to you?"

Although his eyes are too bleary to make out facial features, the Irishman can pretty much tell that Dan is beside him. He relaxes slightly, allowing the Brit to help him onto his bed and strip away the torn remnants of his shirt. Jack coughs, the sound rough and pained. He wipes at the tears at his eyes, but more continue to fall.

"Christ, mate," Dan breathes, taking in the full sight of Jack's chest. "What... what happened?"

"I didn't answer them," Jack replies. He pauses, trying to stop the oncoming sob. "I was protecting Mark."

Dan bites his lip, sighing heavily through his nose. "You've gotten yourself into some deep trouble, haven't you?"

The Irishman doesn't answer as his friend wraps his chest in bandages. The cloth is a welcome change from the wind that burns his wounds. His face is still bruised and his entire body aches, but at least now he has a chance to heal. Dan cleans up the supplies and heads out of the room, allowing Jack to sleep. The pain killers kick in, knocking him out and helping him forget.

—

Mark sits in the lounge, his head in his hands as he downs yet another cup of coffee. The villains have been virtually inactive ever since Jack left, which only serves to increase the hero's worry. Has it really been a full day already? How is Jack? Have they done anything to him? Is he safe? So many questions swirl around in his head, leading him to stand up and pour himself another mug of caffeine. Maybe the burning liquid will help him think.

Going home for the night instead of staying at Curatrix headquarters was supposed to feel good. Chica had been happy about it, but Mark? The house was too large and too empty. He had slept, yes, but his dreams had been consumed by questions and worries about that freaking villain.

Mark ruffles his hair and leans against the back of the chair he's occupying. How much of Jack's story is true? Had he really been waiting for an opportunity to run? Had he simply been playing with Mark's emotions long enough to make a break for it? Was everything a scam? The hero shuts his eyes. Matthias is probably right about him being too trusting. But... Jack had been so vulnerable. You can't fake nightmares like those. He wants so badly to believe that the villain wasn't lying to him, but how can he know? Mark finds himself pacing back and forth across the floor, gently swirling his coffee in his hands.

He will find answers to his questions, even if it means putting himself in potential danger.

—

Waking up is like stepping into a living version of the nightmare Jack just left. As soon as his eyes open, he can see the two men from yesterday opening his door. They drag him to his feet and down the hallway, sending a wave of anxiety washing over him. He considers running, but their grip on his arms prevent him from doing so.

Inside the room, the boss waits in his chair with his clipboard just like before. The floor is still stained with red, reminding Jack of his torture and making his stomach churn. This time, the chair is gone and is instead replaced by two chains that dangle from the ceiling.

"Seán, you were quite hesitant to answer my questions the other day. We are now on strike two. I don't think you want to receive another, so I would suggest submitting today," the boss states. "Boys, chain him up."

Before he knows it, Jack's hands are pulled up over his head and held there by two large cuffs. The upwards stretch makes his wounds ache, but he refuses to let his emotions show on his face despite his racing heart.

The boss taps his clipboard with his pen. "So, let's try this again. What is the name of that hero who was in your room the night of your escape?"

Jack lifts his hanging head to gaze at the boss. When he speaks, his voice is only a touch louder than a whisper.

"What will you do to him if I tell you?"

"That I can't tell you." The edges of the boss' lips twitch up into a smirk. "That would ruin the fun, wouldn't it?"

"Then I won't tell you." Jack lets his head fall again, feeling more anxious and exhausted as the time wears on.

The boss groans audibly. "Seán, Seán, Seán! I thought you didn't want another strike!"

"I've still got fight, Boss. You haven't taken it from me, and you never will."

The man snarls. "Well, in that case, shall we move from strike two to three?" He approaches the villain, snapping the strap of Jack's eyepatch against his head. "I'm sure Anti will tell us what we need to know."

Without a moment of hesitation, Jack pulls himself up on the chains and lands a swift kick to the boss' chest. The man goes stumbling back, completely disoriented as he falls to the ground. Jack's chest rises and falls, his visible eye full of malice.

"Don't. Touch. My. Eyepatch."

The men help the boss stand. As soon as the sick man is on his feet, he storms up to the villain and slaps him across the face. The sound echoes through the room, everything else falling silent.

"That was strike three, boy."