God Complex

Chapter Five

“Move,” followed by a kick that landed on Jason’s back. He barely felt it. His thoughts were elsewhere. How could it be that in just a single day, he had not only been betrayed by his wife but had also indirectly put his sister's life in critical danger? All this while a half-a-million-dollar debt hung over his head. It felt almost unreal, but then again, life had never given him a break since birth, so it shouldn’t be surprising. But what about his sister? He had to find a way to save her. He had to.

He froze, his feet rooted to the spot. An unsettling silence had fallen over the air, like a warning sign that something was amiss. Jason's instincts kicked in, and he swiftly turned around to investigate. The mobsters, they'd stopped walking, but listened intently on their walkie-talkies. They nodded to whatever they received, then in unison snapped their eyes at him. Jason recoiled, his heart racing with fear.

He didn’t need foresight to know something was wrong; they weren’t done with him. His flight instinct kicked in, and before he could move, armed figures emerged in his periphery, surrounding him. Desperate, Jason considered forcing his way out, though the odds of escape were slim. He pressed forward, but at the screech of tires, he slammed into the unforgiving metal of a car, crumpling to the ground.

A black van had pulled up, carrying more mobsters. The odds were now against him, but he wasn’t deterred. He sprang up, but—“ah!”—volts of electricity from a taser surged through Jason’s body, incapacitating him and draining his strength. He fell weightless, and as darkness clouded his vision, he heard the digital increments. This time, however, it sounded articulate, chiming about how it was eighty percent complete and that the host should be able to utilize the system again. What the hell?

A surging waterfall, combined with the turbulent wind of Greystone's mountain, created a soothing ambiance. It would have been almost tranquil if blood-curdling screams weren’t occasionally piercing the air. The screams belonged to Jason. He was chained to a wooden chair perched at the edge of a cliff while being tortured. So far, he had been burned, impaled with spikes, and drowned. Now, ten men crowded around, taking turns beating him with crowbars. He had vehemently pleaded for mercy, but his pleas were met with a switch in their torture methods.

“Plea—please, list— listen,” Jason cried, trembling. If there was a chance they might take pity on him, he wanted to seize it. “Have mercy on me. I’m tired. I can’t take it anymore.” His pleas were met with laughter, and the mobsters remained unrelenting. With one swift swipe, a steel rod struck his temple, tipping the chair and sending him crashing head-first into the granite. Another blow followed, breaking his ribs and draining the last of his vigor. He couldn’t scream; couldn't feel. He just lay there, helpless, finding solace in the memories of his sister. What would become of her if he didn't survive? Tears trickled at the side of his eyes as he wondered.

A crowbar is raised towards his head. It glistened. Just as it's about to descend and deliver a destructive blow, a female voice orders, “not yet.” The men hesitated, then withdrew, revealing glare of car lights and twelve silhouettes. Jason squinted his good eye against the stinging brightness to make out the shadows. Some belonged to the mobsters that beat him, but the last two at the back, sitting at a convertible table, looked familiar. Madam Regina rose and cat-walked towards him. While the other figure remained seated, elegantly crossing his legs and sipping tea. His crimson eyes flicked towards Jason, deranged, before returning to the iPad in his hands.

Madam Regina hissed at a mobster, “You. Take this.” She handed him a file. “Get that filthy destitute's fingerprints on it.” In no time, they had Jason’s prints on the papers. Jason could only watch, barely able to move, as they verified his fingerprints against terms he knew nothing about. He fixed his pain-filled gaze on his mother-in-law, hoping for a chance of rescue. The matriarch responded with a satisfied scrutiny, followed by a derisive smirk. She turned on her heels to leave, and Jason begged, “Mother, help! Please, don’t let them kill me. My sister would've nobody if I died. Please.”

Madam Regina paused. “You filthy peasant,” she laughed, turning away. “To think, ever since my husband betrothed you, a poverty-stricken nobody, to Rachel, I have tried to quietly get rid of you. I even bribed you to leave, but you clung to Rachel like a lovesick fool. We sent assassins, but even they couldn’t dispose of you. You crawled back into our lives like the vermin you are, causing a scene at my house and staining our image in front of esteemed guests. Looking back, I’m glad you didn’t just leave, because now you’ll be disposed of painfully. And as for your sister,” she dismissively flicked her hand, “she can rot with you.” With that, she stalked away. Jason was stunned. He knew his mother-in-law hated him, but not to this extent. Did she just mention assassins?

“Don’t forget our deal,” Madam Regina halted at the table of her better son-in-law. “I've given you Rachel and that hospital, so I'll be expecting a billion-dollar investment in the Rothschild holdings company.” Mister Stone nodded, grinning deviously. Madam Regina oblivious, casted one last disdainful glance at Jason. “Ensure that this time, that trash is properly disposed of,” then finally leave.

Mister Stone grabbed his iPad and crossed the distance. Circumstances rendered him faceless, but as he inched forward, Jason spotted his crimson eyes, meticulously examining all of his flaws and wounds like a predator eyeing its prey. When he reached him, he stood a breath's length away, his towering presence radiating an unsettling chill. Just anticipating what this man, the mobster’s boss, might do to him made Jason's heartbeat irregular.

Twisting, Mister Stone pulled out something soft, and carried it to Jason's face. Jason, traumatized, flinched away, fearing another torture device. It wasn't. It was a napkin. The man eased it onto his face, cleaning his open wounds with the tenderness of a mother.

While cleaning, Mister Stone uttered, “My grandfather used to tell my half-brother—you know, the one you disfigured—that the choices we make can either forge our legacy or forge our downfall.” Dominic chuckled darkly. “The old geezer would be rolling in his grave, laughing at me when he finds out that all my plans—twenty-eight years of waiting, assassination coups, billion-dollar bribes, and forging documents—have gone to shit because of a…” His eyes met Jason's. "...delivery man. Who interestingly isn't what people think he is.”

Jason barely registered his tormentor's words, his senses and instincts fixated on survival. “Please, sir,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. “I’m sorry about the party and—ah!” Dominic pressed his weight into the napkin, silencing him. “Party?” he asked, his tone playful. He turned, locking eyes with his underlings. “He thinks this is about the party!” Dominic chuckled. The underlings, terrified by their boss’s casual demeanor, forced nervous laughter. Dominic then leaned closer, his breath brushing Jason’s ear. “If this were about the party, you’d already be dead. We switched torture methods to see if you’d reveal your true identity.”

Jason was confused. So all the torture he had endured had nothing to do with the party? He also recalled being accused of disfiguring someone's face. Was that what this was about? But he didn't disfigure anybody. Dominic misinterpreted Jason’s livid expression and relaxed back. “Don’t be shocked. I’ve seen the dashcam footage. Although it’s a little blurry from the rain, I saw what you’re capable of. Your fighting is impressive—taking down eight armed men with just cinder blocks takes real talent. So tell me, what are you?”

What was he? He was just a delivery man, a pauper. What was this absurd story about killing eight people with cinder blocks and disfiguring faces? It had to be a case of mistaken identity. It simply had to be. Jason summoned the strength to speak, his words barely above a whisper. “I... am... nobody,” he gasped. “I've never killed anyone. You've mistaken me for someone else. Please, I'm just a common delivery man trying to provide for my sick sister. Let me go.”

Mister Stone seethed. The man refused to crack. He threw the napkin aside and cupped Jason's face, his brittle thumb circling an open wound. “A common delivery man?” he smiled, and then stabbed his thumb into the wound, causing Jason to spiral into screams and convulsions. “A common delivery man doesn’t take down eight armed men. If you had fought my useless half-brother, I might understand. But you took on eight armed men—and Mister Song, the best fighter in the criminal underworld. And you’re supposed to be just a common delivery man? Tell me, what are you really? Which covert operative do you work for? Speak now, while I’m still being friendly.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know about any covert operative. I’m just a delivery man,” Jason cried, his face contorted with pain. The anguish caused his heartbeat to spike, thumping so violently it hurt his head and triggered something. The digital voice chimed, announcing it was ninety-eight percent complete until the host could utilize the system. Whatever his fogged mind said was the least of his worries—getting the pain to stop was.