Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside his house slowly. His body felt heavy, and the small injuries he carried still bothered him with every movement. He walked to his room without saying anything, dropped onto his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
For a while he didn't move.
The house was quiet. No traffic noise reached this far back. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street. Normal sounds. The kind of sounds that belonged to a life he wasn't sure he was actually living anymore.
His mind kept going back to everything that had happened — from the moment he got those memories, to everything he had done until today. The fights, the choices, the decisions. It all replayed again and again without stopping. The docks. The warehouse. The hostages. The oil trap. His own claws trembling against the ground. Every moment cycling through in no particular order, like his brain refused to file any of it away properly.
He felt different. A little detached from everything around him.
Even though he kept telling himself this was the real world — that he had lived here for eighteen years, gone to the same school, walked the same streets — something had shifted after he got the system and the Omnitrix. Deep inside, without fully realizing it, he had started treating everything like a game. Like he was playing a hero role instead of actually living his life. Going through the motions. Checking boxes. Earning points.
That thought didn't sit well with him. It was affecting him more than he expected. Even when he tried to act normal he could feel it — the way he reacted to things, the way he processed situations before he'd even finished hearing them. Calculating. It wasn't the same anymore.
"I'm… changing," he muttered quietly.
He paused, staring at the ceiling.
"…This isn't good."
He let out a slow breath and turned to his side, his body finally relaxing against the mattress. "I need to slow down." He closed his eyes and held onto that thought, repeating it until it stopped feeling like a reminder and started feeling like a decision.
After a while, sleep took over.
The next morning he got up, got dressed, and told himself it was just another day. His body disagreed but he ignored it.
Jack walked into school trying his best to look normal. His body still felt sore and the injuries hadn't fully healed, but he kept his posture steady and his expression casual. He'd gotten reasonably good at that — wearing a neutral face like a jacket. Most people didn't look closely enough to notice the difference.
He made it about thirty seconds into the hallway before Peter fell into step beside him.
"Hey." Peter glanced at him sideways. Then looked again, slower. "You good?"
"Yeah," Jack said. "Why."
"You're walking weird."
"I'm not walking weird."
"Your left side." Peter gestured vaguely. "You're favoring it. Like something hurts."
Jack adjusted his stride without thinking about it. "Slept wrong."
Peter didn't look convinced but he let it go for about ten more steps. Then — "Also your jacket. You've got it zipped all the way up. It's not even cold in here."
"I run cold."
"You've never run cold before."
Jack didn't answer that one.
They turned the corner into the main corridor. Gwen was at her locker, guitar case leaning against the wall beside her. She closed the locker door, turned around, saw them, and started walking over.
She got about halfway and stopped.
Not dramatically. Just — paused. Her eyes went to Jack's face first, then down briefly, then back up. The whole thing took maybe two seconds.
"What happened to you?" she said.
"Morning," Jack said.
"Jack."
"Nothing happened. I got robbed last night, ended up in a scuffle, it's fine." He kept his voice easy. "I've already told Peter. It's not a big deal."
Gwen looked at Peter. Peter gave her the smallest shrug that clearly communicated I don't believe him either.
She looked back at Jack. "Where?"
"Near my place. Three guys, wanted the wallet, I didn't hand it over fast enough." He shrugged with his right shoulder — not his left. "Lesson learned."
"Which side did they get you on."
Jack paused for half a second. "What?"
"You shrugged with your right shoulder." She nodded toward his left side. "You haven't moved your left arm much since you walked in."
The hallway kept moving around them — students passing, lockers slamming, the usual morning noise. Jack stood in the middle of it and looked at her.
"I'm fine," he said.
"I didn't say you weren't." Her voice was calm. No accusation in it, just steady. "I'm just saying you shrugged with your right shoulder."
Peter looked between them. "She's right. You did."
"Whose side are you on?"
"I'm on the side of the guy who's clearly hurt and saying he isn't." Peter crossed his arms. "Which is your side, technically. I'm trying to help."
Jack exhaled slowly. "It's bruised. That's all. Nothing broken, nothing serious, it'll be fine in a few days." He looked at both of them. "Can we go to class now."
Gwen studied him for one more moment. Then she picked up her guitar case and turned toward the classroom. "Sure."
She didn't say anything else.
They went to class. The morning moved the way mornings do — lessons bleeding into each other, the clock moving slower than it had any right to. Jack sat through it and kept his posture right and answered when his name was called. Nobody else noticed anything. That was fine. That was the point.
But every time he glanced across the room, Gwen was writing notes with her pen moving steadily across the page and her eyes forward. Not looking at him. Which somehow felt like the same thing as looking at him.
After school Peter and MJ caught up with him near the gate. They walked with him for a bit, asking questions he answered simply, keeping it light until they seemed satisfied enough to let it go. By the time he reached his block they'd said goodbye and turned back.
He went home, changed quietly, and sat down, letting the silence settle around him.
MJ had texted the group chat about band practice. He replied that his hand was still sore from the fall and asked to skip today. Nobody pushed back. Peter sent a thumbs up. Gwen read it and didn't reply.
The house was quiet again.
Gwen walked toward Jack's house.
She had told herself it was to check on him and spend some time together. That was partly true. But it wasn't the whole reason.
As the daughter of a police officer she had a natural instinct for noticing when something didn't add up — the small inconsistencies, the answers that came a half-second too quick, the way someone's body said one thing while their voice said another. Her father had it. She had inherited it without meaning to.
And she had already seen it clearly earlier. Jack was lying. It hadn't even been difficult to tell. The eye contact that broke at exactly the wrong moment. The answers delivered too casually, too rehearsed. The way he'd adjusted his sleeve when she said he was hurt — a small, unconscious move, redirecting attention without realizing he was doing it.
Nothing matched.
She turned onto his street. The afternoon was quiet — a car moved past slowly, and somewhere down the block a kid was kicking a ball against a wall in a steady rhythm.
She stopped in front of his door.
Stood there for a moment.
He's definitely hiding something.
She exhaled slowly, eyes on his door.
Why won't he just say it? I'm not a stranger. I'm his friend.
That part bothered her more than the lying. She could deal with people hiding things — her dad's job had taught her that early. But Jack wasn't some random person. He was someone she actually cared about.
If he's dealing with something alone right now… that's just stupid.
A small doubt crept in.
Or maybe he thinks I can't handle it.
She was almost angry at that. Almost.
Her hand hovered near the door.
If I'm wrong… this is going to be awkward.
She hesitated.
But if I'm right…
Her expression hardened slightly.
She knocked.
Whatever it was — she'd find out. And after that, he wasn't handling it by himself anymore.
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