Jack's dead body made its comeback like a washed-up celebrity getting a reboot nobody asked for.

Stronges—Sexis' mom, our alien bodybuilder queen—brought it from the medical room. And damn. That corpse looked better than 80% of the living population.

I mean, a lot of living people look like they've been using their face to test the structural integrity of brick walls, but Jack's corpse was gleaming. Shiny, smooth, freshly stitched—like a limited-edition collector's corpse, only this one came with the faint, lingering scent of formaldehyde and unresolved rage.

We all had completely forgotten about Jack, mainly because, well, he was dead.

And when he wasn't dead, he was a ghost. Which is worse, because at least corpses stay still and generally don't whisper existential dread. Ghost-Jack used to float around like a Wi-Fi signal—constantly present, often annoying, entirely transparent, and utterly useless when you actually needed bandwidth for anything important. You could feel his presence, but it never helped you connect to anything.

The man was angry at me for a long time. I get it—I used his skull as a door-knocking device. But now that I'd fulfilled my promise, he should've been done being emo. . The man needed to update his spiritual Facebook status from 'vengeful' to 'vaguely appreciative.'

Stronges had even fixed his right leg. Back in prison, that leg got destroyed faster than government promises.

He used to wear a fake one, so she crafted him a new one—a deluxe, ghost-approved prosthetic.It was titanium-alloy, perfectly articulated, and probably had better shock absorption than my spine. Bro had an upgrade. His new leg looked far more realistic and reliable than my emotional stability, which was currently oscillating between 'mildly traumatized' and 'should I be laughing at this?'

His feet peeked from his pants, and I was thankful for the pants part. Because I've seen Jack naked before—corpse and ghost version—and both times felt like visual terrorism. The mind is a fragile thing, and I wasn't about to experience that trauma again, especially not before a big battle

Stronges was holding his body by the nape like a cat who'd been fired from existence.

And I looked around.

Where the hell was Ghost-Jack?

If I got my old body back, I'd be doing cartwheels through walls.

She reached the center and dropped Jack's body at my feet. It fell like a wet towel with dignity issues—face down, limp, silent.

I just stood there like, ...Okay? Do I clap? Do I salute? Do I put a blanket over it?

Using this corpse as a weapon? Nah. I was strong enough to beat enemies without swinging a man-shaped meat pillow.

But since Ghost-Jack can't go far from his corpse, we'd have to carry him into battle. Which is… just great.

Nothing says "heroic revolution" like lugging around a dead guy with unresolved feelings.

I turned to Stronges, silently asking, what kind of sick team-building exercise is this?

She understood. Because she always understands my internal dumbness.

"I'll carry the body," she said. "You'll all be distracted. Racis could manage it too, but his fight is with Malthus. We can't risk it."

Bro. She said it like she was volunteering to carry her ex's coffin through a mosh pit.

"You'll carry his dead body? Master, that's… kind."

She scoffed. "I'm not kind, Racis. I'm practical. I'll use anything to raise our chances of winning—even a corpse with emotional baggage."

You know what? Fair. She's like Sun Tzu if he had muscles and zero empathy.

She's risking her life carrying a glorified meat backpack just to give us a 1% better chance at victory. That's insane. That's heroic. That's… probably a bit illegal.

I looked at her like she hung the moon with one hand and punched God with the other.

But then—

Something clicked.

Wait a damn minute.

"How do you know Jack can read minds?" I asked. "I never told you that. And he hated everyone. Dude barely talked to us."

Everyone turned to her, eyebrows raised.

Stronges just sighed like a teacher realizing her students were terminally dumb.

"Yes, he was angry," she said. "But when he saw me restoring his body, he floated to me. Said sorry. I told him it's fine. He loved his body too much, that's all."

Loved his body? Bro talked about his corpse like it was a long-distance girlfriend.

"I once asked him to meditate," she continued, "and he barked at me. Called me a bitch."

Oh. So he had bark and a bite.

She said it calmly, like "bitch" was just another species of greeting.

"I couldn't kill him since he was a ghost, so I ignored it. Then he saw me working on his body and felt bad. He apologized, I forgave him, and he told me everything. He's a pervert, horny, but more than that, lonely."

Ah, yes. The Holy Trinity of Male Traits.

She went on. "He calls you his best friend, Racis."

My jaw dropped.

Best friend?

Bro, I used his forehead to unlock doors. That's not friendship—that's domestic terrorism.

Apparently, while we were out sweating, training, and getting insulted daily, he was meditating.

For five years.

Stronges said he trained his mind to stare at people without blinking for five minutes straight.

That's not telepathy—that's how stalkers are made.

"He couldn't focus at first," Stronges explained. "So I told him to meditate. He did. Every night. First five hours. Then six. Then the entire day. He became… like a saint."

A saint.

Jack.

The same man who called her a bitch.

Saint Jack the Enlightened Pervert.

What a glow-up.

I blinked hard, trying to process that.

This man had been floating around all these years doing his own spiritual side quest while we were out here collecting trauma XP.

"So where is he now?" I asked, half expecting her to say something dramatic like 'He's watching us from the stars.'

Stronges sighed.

"He's meditating."

I frowned.

"Where?"

She hesitated. Then sighed again, heavier this time.

"In the bathroom."

…

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