"Eight years?" Jackson echoed, his mind reeling. "But that's impossible. I just left here yesterday. Well, before the bus... and the hospital..." He trailed off, realizing how insane he must sound.The woman's expression softened slightly, moving from suspicion to concern. "Are you feeling alright, dear? Perhaps you need to sit down. Or call someone?"Jackson shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I must have the wrong apartment. My mistake."The old woman eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Alright, dear. Do take care." With that, she shuffled back inside and closed the door, leaving Jackson's mouth agape in the hallway.He blinked rapidly as if expecting the familiar surroundings of his apartment to materialize before him. No such luck. The faded wallpaper and musty carpet remained stubbornly unfamiliar."What in the ever-loving hell is going on?" Jackson muttered, running a hand through his hair."My, my, such lang

The elevator descended with a gentle hum, carrying Natalia and Evelyn down from Evelyn's luxurious suite. Natalia's brow furrowed as she glanced at her friend. "Seriously, Ev, why do you always insist on these fancy-schmancy hotels? They're gonna suck your bank account dry faster than a vacuum on steroids." "Oh, please. Daddy dearest foots the bill. He'd have a conniption if his precious princess stayed under five-star." "Whatever," Natalia scoffed, crossing her arms. "You won't catch me burning cash on overpriced mini-bars and fluffy robes. I'd rather spend my hard-earned dough on something useful... like shoes." "Says the girl with more zeroes in her bank account than I have shoes," Evelyn retorted. "Come on, live a little! What's the point of having money if you don't splash it around?" Natalia opened her mouth to fire back, but the words died on her tongue as the elevator doors slid open. Her eyes locked onto a man standing next to a room attendant, and suddenly, the world se

Time seemed to crawl by at a snail's pace. Jackson paced the room, practiced his "seductive" face in the mirror (which mostly looked like he was constipated), and even considered raiding the mini-bar for liquid courage. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doorbell rang. Jackson's heart leaped into his throat. He smoothed down his hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Standing before him was a vision in a crisp hotel uniform. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, a few rebellious strands framing a face that could launch a thousand ships - or at least a thousand terrible pickup lines. "Your order, sir," she said, her voice melodious and professional. Jackson blinked, his brain frantically trying to remember how words worked. "I... uh... sandwich?" he managed to croak out. "Yes, sir. One club sandwich, as requested." She held out the tray, and Jackson's hands moved on autopilot to take it. Their fingers brushed for

He laughed nervously, scrambling for an explanation. "Oh, that? It's... uh... a funny story, actually." She crossed her arms, waiting expectantly. "I'm all ears." Jackson ran a hand through his hair, buying time. "Well, I'm not usually this... technologically challenged. My regular phone had an unfortunate encounter with a cup of coffee this morning. Total goner. So, I had to dig out this relic from the depths of my junk drawer." Sophia raised an eyebrow, clearly not entirely convinced. "As for the clothes," he continued, gesturing to his attire, "I'm a firm believer in the 'comfort over style' philosophy. Have you seen the price tags on some of those designer outfits? Highway robbery, if you ask me." She studied him briefly, and then a small smile crept across her face. "Alright, Mr. Practical. I'll buy it... for now. But you better get yourself a new phone soon. This thing belongs in a museum." "Trust me, it's at the top of my to-do list," Jackson ass

The rain pelted down relentlessly, turning the city into a dark, watery hellscape. Streetlights struggled to pierce the gloom, their feeble beams reflected in puddles that looked more like pools of blood in the eerie glow. It was the kind of night that made sensible folks huddle indoors, leaving the streets to the desperate and the deranged. In a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town, a man sat tied to a chair, his once-crisp white shirt now a canvas of crimson. He looked like he'd taken a swim in a vat of marinara sauce, except marinara sauce usually smelled better and didn't come with a side of broken bones. Victor sauntered into the warehouse, his polished Oxfords clicking against the concrete floor, each step echoing through the cavernous space like a twisted doorbell. His tailored suit, immaculate and pristine, seemed almost laughably out of place in the grimy surroundings. In his mid-thirties, Victor carried an air of confidence, a stark contrast to the bl