Chapter 849 - 851
Later that night, Jude stood on the roof of his apartment building. Below, the city lights flickered like a map of all the lives he couldn’t protect. He held the tarot card in his hand, running his thumb over its rough surface. He remembered the last time he saw that symbol. It was painted in blood on a mirror. And the girl who saw it never stopped screaming, until she stopped breathing.
He pocketed the card and looked at the sky. The clouds had parted just enough for the moon to break through. Pale and distant, like the truth. He didn’t pray. He had stopped doing that a long time ago. But tonight, he wished for something. Not salvation. Not peace. Just time. Enough to fix one thing before everything else fell apart.
And deep in the city, in a place no light touched, a figure watched him through a cracked screen. He smiled, a slow, patient smile, and picked up another card.
Death. Reversed.
He whispered Jude’s name like a promise. Then he laughed, quiet and cruel, as he placed the card on the table beside a burning candle, and waited.
Jude didn’t sleep. He lay in bed with his eyes open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling that he never bothered to fix. The sounds of the city outside his window, sirens, distant shouting, the low hum of traffic, had long stopped bothering him. He welcomed them now, a reminder that the world was still moving, even when he couldn’t. The tarot card lay on his nightstand beside his gun. He didn’t believe in magic or fate, but he believed in patterns. And patterns had a way of repeating themselves when you weren’t paying attention. This wasn’t just a return. It was a message, and he needed to understand it before the next body turned up.
At six a.m., Jude got up and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection in the mirror looked worse than he felt, eyes hollow, jaw unshaven, a bruise forming along his neck where he’d collided with a pipe in the warehouse. He didn’t bother with a clean shirt. He just pulled on his jacket and left. The streets were still half asleep, bathed in gray light. He walked three blocks before hailing a cab, too wired to drive but too tired to walk the whole way.
He told the driver to take him to St. Mirin’s, an old church that had long since been converted into a shelter. The priest who once led it was dead, but the building still stood, taken over by a group of ex-volunteers and activists who had no better place to go. Jude had a history with them. They didn’t like him, but they tolerated him, especially when he brought answers, or threats.
The cab dropped him off at the corner, and Jude walked the rest of the way, hands in his pockets, collar pulled up against the chill. Inside, the scent of boiled coffee and worn fabric filled the air. People lay on cots and mats, most pretending to sleep, some just staring. A kid with messy hair and no shoes darted past him, chasing something only he could see. Jude made his way through the main hall to a side room that had once been a confessional. Now it served as a makeshift office, piled with files, old electronics, and a heater that buzzed like a dying insect.