The Lorn Connection
Jack spent the entire morning pacing about, his mind a tangled mess of half-formed thoughts and spiraling paranoia.
The room at the hotel felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in with each unanswered question. The brand-new laptop sat untouched on the desk, the unbroken seal mocking him. He knew it belonged to him now—technically—but it didn't feel like his. Nothing did.
He rubbed his temples, the dull ache behind his eyes refusing to fade.
"I have to figure this out."
Jack dropped into the chair, fingers drumming against the desk as he opened the laptop. The screen lit up with a sharp, sterile glow, reflecting his own exhausted face back at him.
He hesitated before typing into the search bar:
"Symptoms associated, with blackouts, memory lapses and hearing voices."
A single result stood out from the others on the screen.
"Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) symptoms."
Clicking the link, results flooded the screen instantly—medical journals, psychology forums, even personal accounts from people who lived with it. Jack clicked on one, scrolling through the symptoms.
Memory lapses. Dissociation. Unexplained possessions. Hearing voices. Amnesia. Lost time.
His breath seized as he read through each point.
"Memory lapses? Check. Voices? Definitely. Unexplained possessions?"
His grip tightened on the mouse.
"But this... this isn't just some disorder. It's something else."
Digging deeper, he found a case study that made his blood run cold.
A contract killer—real name redacted—who unknowingly had multiple personalities. His primary self was an unremarkable man, an ordinary citizen. But when he blacked out, another version of him took over—one that was ruthless, efficient, and deadly.
The man only discovered the truth after getting arrested for a murder he had no memory of committing.
Jack swallowed hard, his throat dry.
The more he read, the more his stomach twisted.
"What if I'm the same? What if I—"
The realization felt like a weight pressed against his chest.
He pushed away from the desk, standing too quickly. His foot caught the edge of the bag from Quantum Edge, tipping it over.
A small debit card slid out onto the floor. Jack stared at it. For a long moment, he didn't move.
Slowly, he bent down and picked it up. "This… is definitely not mine."
His fingers traced the edges of the card. He barely remembered getting to this hotel, let alone making a purchase worth over 13,000 ERC.
His breaths came quicker now. "I need answers. Now."
Jack turned back to the laptop, his hands shaking as he started pulling up more searches—anything, everything. He scoured forums, medical journals, online discussions, even conspiracy theories on personality fractures.
The deeper he went, the worse it got.
There were stories of people who lost weeks of their lives. People who would wake up in different cities with no recollection of how they got there. People who found blood on their hands but no memory of violence.
Jack clenched his fists. "What the hell have I been doing when I black out?"
He paced the room for an hour before exhaustion finally took hold—his body collapsing onto the bed.
His eyes closed for a brief moment before darting open again. Nope I can't afford to sleep what if they go out again.
He walked to the intercom and pressed the button. "More coffee, please." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he fixed his eyes on the door, waiting. Minutes later, a knock came.
Standing up he walked to door opening it, he took the tray from the attendant, who asked, "Would that be all, Sir." "Yes, thank you." Jack replied. "No problem at all" the attendant said before walking off.
Sipping his coffee, Jack swore the ticking clock echoed louder than usual. No—everything was louder. The hum of the AC. The fridge. Hell, even the low static from the TV buzzed in his ears like a whisper.
Hours slowly ticked by, his vision blurring occasionally. Eventually the coffee cup slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud. His body felt... distant. Hollow. The ticking of the clock slowed—then stopped."
___________________________
[03:21 AM - Royale Hotel]
A smile formed on his lips before his eyes even opened.
Black stretched his arms, as he sat up.
"Thought the kid would never pass out. Sheesh."
He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose before his gaze turned toward the desk. Standing up he walked towards it, bending down he reached into the bag pulling out the smartwatch from the warehouse massacre—Salvatore's old watch.
The kid had been too focused on psychology nonsense to even think about checking the bag.
Black scoffed. "He really thought this was just about some mental breakdown?"
Standing he walked to the desk grabbing the watch and began dismantling it with swift, practiced movements. The backplate popped off, revealing a tiny embedded chip.
"There you are," he murmured, plucking it out, with a pincer.
This little thing held everything—call logs, transaction records, encrypted messages. Salvatore had been a smuggler, after all, and Black knew these types always kept receipts.
Grabbing the laptop, he inserted the chip into a portable decryption module and let the program work.
Lines of data scrolled across the screen at lightning speed. Call records, transaction logs, messages—it was all here.
Glancing at the multitude upon multitude, rows of data, Black sighed his fingers dancing across the keyboard, as lines of code materialized on the screen after a few minutes he sighed, "That ought to do it." Clicking the enter button, the program began sorting through every data point that seemed out of the ordinary from Salvatore's usual dealings.
Minutes later the program stopped, Black's eyes narrowed as he scrolled through the sorted data and for a few minutes, nothing. Just endless logs—transactions, money laundering, and irrelevant data. Then—bingo.
Levine Lorn - Payment: 3,000 ERC - Target Jack Vales - Status: Completed.
Black leaned forward, rereading the name as a slow realization settled over him. The Lorns. Of course it was one of them. Bastards like them always thought they could buy their way out of consequences."
He stilled. Then, a slow smirk stretched across his face.
"Well, well. Looks like we just found ourselves a new target."
The Lorn family was old money. Big money. Corporate empire money. Jack's clueless ass would've never thought to look their way.
He cracked his knuckles, already planning his next move.
He leaned back in the chair, tapping a few keys to encrypt his findings.
"Levine. Fucking. Lorn." Black's fingers tightened, his smile curling into something sinister. "Soon he'll learns what it means to be hunted."