Rostova's Stand

The rain, usually a cleansing force washing the grime from the city’s weary streets, seemed to fall with an almost accusatory persistence. Each drop that splattered against the grimy windowpane of Jack Black’s apartment felt like a tiny, insistent finger tapping out a rhythm of unease. He’d spent the better part of the day trying to outrun the gnawing feeling in his gut, the one that had taken root after Dr. Thorne’s unsettling pronouncements and the subsequent, almost comical, chaos at the bank.

He’d been trying to convince himself it was all just a series of unfortunate coincidences, a ripple effect from his newfound abilities that he could simply smooth over with a bit more… finesse. But the gnawing persisted, a silent, unwelcome passenger. He glanced at the crumpled newspaper on his coffee table, the headline screaming about the "unexplained tremors" and the "dubious security breach" at Sterling National. His stomach tightened. Dubious. That was putting it mildly.

A sharp rap at the door jolted him from his thoughts. His heart leaped into his throat, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, who it was. He’d seen the patrol car parked a block away for the last hour, its silent presence a constant, prickling reminder of the law.