What Choice?

Jack was escorted through Benny's by the two men.

The noise of the room carried on behind them - coins, voices, the low constant hum - but around him it thinned. Tables parted. Conversations dipped. Faces turned away.

No one intervened.

They moved quickly. Past the tables, down a narrow corridor. A door on the right opened and Jack was pushed through into a back room - darker, quieter.

He was forced into a chair. The men left without a word, the door shut, and the lock clicked.

Jack stayed where he was for a moment, listening. Nothing obvious. Just muffled voices somewhere beyond the walls. A scrape. A short shout, cut off.

He took in the room. Small, bare, a table between two chairs. No windows. One door, solid. No point trying to pick the lock, even if it opened, there'd be someone on the other side. Nothing to do but wait.

It had been a risk - coming here at all, drawing attention like that, exposing the dealer in front of everyone.

But what choice had he had?

Rourke was in it. He had to be.

Kate's bruise.

Lorraine had said she'd been spending time here. That hadn't sat right then. It sat worse now.

Was it her choice, or had she been made to?

And Rourke -

At Finnegan's.

At the funeral.

Watching.

Jack's jaw tightened.

***

He stood, paced once across the room, then back again. Tried the handle just in case. Locked. Of course it was. He pressed his ear briefly to the wood - nothing clear, just distant movement. He stepped back and sat again, forced himself still.

His hand drifted to his pocket. The card was there, worn soft at the edges, the creases long set. He ran his thumb along one of them without looking.

Breathe.

Think.

Say it clean.

Don't lose control.

***

The lock turned.

Jack straightened before the door opened. One of the guards stepped in. Rourke followed.

He was wiping his hands with a rag as he entered, dark red stains already soaking through the cloth. He shut the door himself, slow and deliberate, and turned. Looked at Jack - long, measured. Then he crossed the room and sat opposite. The rag landed on the table between them.

"You were looking for my attention," Rourke said. His voice was calm. Flat. "There were better ways of doing it than making me look bad in my own place." A brief pause. "But you've got it."

Jack didn't wait.

"You know why I'm here." His voice came out sharper than he'd planned. "I saw you this morning. In the slums. At the funeral."

He leaned forward slightly.

"You had something to do with it. I know you did."

His jaw tightened.

"If you hurt her - I'll kill you."

Rourke didn't react. He leaned back in his chair slightly, studying him.

"You must be Jack," he said. "Kate talked about you."

It hit harder than anything else he could have said.

Jack blinked. "What?"

Rourke watched him. "Although, she said you were smart."

For a moment, Jack had nothing.

Kate. Talking to Rourke? When? Why?

Rourke went on, as if the rest of it barely mattered. "I had nothing to do with what happened to her." No emphasis, no defensiveness. "She was… worth something."

Jack frowned. That wasn't what he'd expected. Not from him.

"What about the bruise?" Jack snapped. "The one on her face yesterday?"

Rourke's eyes flicked up slightly. "You think I did that?" He shook his head once. "I may be a lot of things, Jack. But I don't hit women." He leaned forward slightly now, forearms resting on the table. "Trust me - the man who did that got a lot worse."

Jack's hands tightened. "Then who? If it wasn't you - who killed her?"

Rourke held his gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer.

"I heard what happened. That wasn't street work." Silence. "That was a professional."

The word sat there.

Rourke leaned back again. "That's not something you go digging into. And it's not something I get involved in."

Jack stared at him. "Don't you even care?"

Rourke's expression didn't change. "Me stepping into that doesn't bring her back." Then, more quietly: "It just gets more people killed."

Silence stretched between them.

"My advice, you should stay out of it too," Rourke said.

Jack didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.

Something shifted in Rourke's expression then. Subtle. A decision made.

"Kate liked you," he said. A faint breath through his nose. "To be honest… I like you too." Another pause. "You've got nerve." His eyes flicked briefly, almost dismissively. "And you were right about my dealer."

"But you embarrassed me."

"You threatened me."

"I can't let that pass."

***

A small nod.

The guard moved first. Jack barely had time to turn before the first hit landed. Hard. It knocked the breath out of him more than anything else. The second came quicker. Then another.

He lost his footing. Hit the floor. The edge of the table caught his shoulder on the way down.

Sound blurred. Movement fractured.

Boots. Hands. Impact.

No rhythm to it. He curled instinctively, arms coming up too late to stop most of it. Another kick landed.

Something shifted in his vision. Not the pain. Something else.

A step closer. An arm - bare, just below the sleeve.

Ink.

For a second, nothing connected.

Then -

A flicker.

Dark.

Rain.