Jack continued to kneel beside him, looking dumbly at the syringe, as if there were any way he could fix the damage.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I wish Argosi were here," Jack relayed with a burdened smile. "He might know what to do."

Preston tried to laugh, but couldn't.

Jack looked back at the addict, then up to his apartment, trying to discern if there had been any sign of a disturbance from before they had arrived.

"I need to know if we caught him before he got a chance to go up there," Jack said. "I'll call an ambulance for you, but first we have to go-" His voice cut out as Preston's entire body began to contort in apparent pain. Comparable to Wrath, all of his veins erupted across his visible skin like black serpents, accompanied by screams of agony.

Jack tried to hold him down, but Preston's strength was like nothing he'd ever seen. Without warning, Jack had been thrown off him, rolling along the parking lot. Before he stopped himself, he heard Preston's shoes sc.r.a.ping against the ground, grating against the asphalt as he flailed his limbs.

Jack had rolled on his bad arm, still aching and possibly infected from the bullet wound. It sent fresh waves of pain up his body before finally managing to bring himself back up.

"s.h.i.t," he said as he looked back toward his partner.

Preston was sitting on the pavement, looking at his hands in muted amazement. He appeared to be both in a state of shock and experiencing the euphoric effects of ordinary Bloodstrife. The black veins began to squirm under the surface of his skin. They branched out, forcing his hands and arms to shake. The rest of him was eerily still and silent. Preston turned his head with obvious effort, looking Jack squarely in the eye.

Then, he smiled.

At first, Detective Preston Burroughs felt a certain clarity, an understanding with the world around him. He heard the voices of people as they walked down the Chicago streets, the closest of which had to be several blocks away. There was a calmness that surrounded him. The serenity was total, like being adrift in the sea.

Despite having just thrown Jack off him, he felt no guilt. In reality, he felt nothing at all. He was neither drained nor remorseful as a result of the physical feat. In his exhilaration, Preston had barely remembered he was in his forties and out of shape. It was a new strength inside him, feeling like great rivers flowing through his veins.

Preston looked to Jack, crumpled on the pavement in the moments after he stopped moving. Jack struggled to rise as Preston saw his partner beginning to get himself back together after the shock. He appeared hurt, but not badly so.

Preston hadn't realized it until the pair had locked eyes, but a strong smile had etched itself on his face. He was exuberant and felt a noticeable, albeit bizarre euphoric rush of adrenaline.

Studying him, Preston continued to stare mischievously at his partner, trying to understand the conflict that had suddenly risen between them.

After the initial shock that Jack had presented, Preston saw Detective Paige rub his hand through his hair. It came back stained in oily red blood. Landing on the pavement had cut a thin gash in his head which had already clotted, but the blood that had escaped tinted Jack's brown hair a dark red.

Preston looked at his hands, uttering the shallow words "this feels so . . . strange" to no one in particular. The sound of his own voice was m.u.f.fled and muted, as if speaking underwater.

"Preston," the voice echoed in his ears, equally distorted. Distant, he heard it drowning in the sounds of the city. It was competing with the noise from faraway street cars and airplanes, all of which were nowhere to be seen.

He could see that Jack had risen, trying to get his attention, but Preston looked away, riding back and forth on the wave of his continually building euphoria.

For a few moments, he stared forward, losing track of all movement in his line of sight. Preston barely registered the calls of his partner as they drew closer. He focused on nothing in particular as he sat on the ground, legs outstretched.

His head jolted to the left as Jack placed both hands to the side of his face, forcing him to look directly at him.

"Preston," Jack yelled, this time his voice trumpeting loudly enough to hear. "Snap out of it!"

At that moment, even through the haze, Detective Burroughs realized that things had taken a turn for the worse. A mildly annoying pain which he had first noticed after receiving the injection had been steadily growing in his chest. At first, he'd thought it was merely the result of the puncture wound. However, it now moved as if alive, tracing his veins and slithering out like raging dragons beneath the skin.

It was like a small fire in his chest, ready to consume him.

Still sitting on the scorching pavement, Preston doubled over in pain, clenching his teeth as he suddenly dealt with the worst agony he'd ever experienced. It felt as if his heart were being ripped apart over and over. It drowned out all reason. Any remnants of his personality began to fade away, and with it, the euphoria.

Inklings of anger pulsated before a pure rage enveloped him fully.

He looked to his hands again, seeing for the first time-black veins covered his entire body. He could feel the stiff imprints of the vessels all over, meshed and intertwined, coating him like a second skin. Preston brought his polluted hands to his face, feeling the new unfamiliar ridges etched on his nose and cheeks.

Some memories managed to find their way back, as if finally managing to pull his head above water. A mirror wasn't necessary. He knew he appeared no different than Envy whom they had fought in the bas.e.m.e.nt. All of his insides were alive and crawling, begging to be set free.

Preston screamed, clawing at his skin. Thick red slashes started to appear all over his body, carved out by the paths of his own fingernails.

He felt his partner slap him, temporarily bringing him back to reality before inflicting more severe damage. He'd been stopped after slashing his face only a few times. There was pain, but he barely noticed.

For the first time in several minutes, Preston focused his attention fully on his partner, seeing the damage he'd done to him. Jack was gaunt and stressed. His hair was dark red in places, tainted by still fresh wounds. Small beads of sweat had caused some of the blood to creep onto his forehead, staining it in thin streams. He looked as if he'd been wearing a crown of thorns.

"Jack," Preston managed to choke out. He'd returned to himself, but just barely. "I think this is what they all go through. Greed looked exactly like this." Preston paused as his face contorted in indescribable rage. "I'm so G.o.d d.a.m.n angry and I don't know why."

"Look, I'm going to try calling for backup and an ambulance, but I need you to stay here. Can you do that for me?" Jack asked as he ran his hand through his hair again, rubbing his head in the process. Like l.u.s.t, his hand came back stained in red.

Preston shook his head violently, not out of anger, but because his last failing senses knew that leaving him alone would only result in more carnage.

Even now, he felt himself slipping away, back underwater.

Instantly, the detective stood, once again fully consumed by the pure catalyzed blood. While aware of what was happening, he could do nothing to stop it. His body was in total control, independent of the mind. When he finally yielded, he wanted nothing more than to lash out at everyone around him, ripping them to shreds.

"It was you," he spat, now yelling at the top of his lungs at Jack. Preston's black veins subsided, replaced by bulging, standard veins under his skin. He looked as if he were straining to lift something with all of his might. "It was you who wanted to take them away from me."

"What?" Jack asked, confused. He took several steps backward, growing increasingly nervous.

"Don't try to run away from me," he yelled, spittle leaping from his mouth like a rabid dog. "Once Elisabeth died, you knew I'd be totally dependent on you!"

"Preston," Jack said calmly with his arms outstretched. "I want you to listen to what you're saying. It's crazy, okay? You know I loved your family almost as much as you did."

"Liar!" he screamed. Larger bands of white foam were beginning to form at the edges of Preston's mouth.

The Detective was speechless inside Preston's mind. There was nothing to be said. Consumed by rage, the small voice slowly faded away.

Jack could see any recognition in his partner's eyes drift. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but halted himself, knowing there was no way he could use it on his partner. He would have no choice but to keep his distance and try to evade him.

Preston lunged clumsily, attempting to strike him. Jack barely reacted to the attack, having managed to put a ten foot difference between them as he'd been backing away. From what he could see, the effects of the pure catalyzed Particle N in his partner's blood were forcing a continuing change.

Although the veins were still present, the dead corpuscles inside had been replaced with fresh human blood. Now a normal healthy color, they bulged, but didn't appear to be having a detrimental effect like the normal drug.

Preston flinched as another bolt of pain shot through him, throwing off his attack. Jack dodged easily as his partner fell to the ground, making no attempt to cushion the fall with his arms. He merely slammed into the pavement, no differently than if he had fainted. Preston twitched mildly. Steadily he allowed the rage to bubble to the surface, bringing him back. What started as a simple curse bled ubiquitously into the diatribes of mad daydreams.

"f.u.c.k you!" Preston screamed. "You can't have them. They're mine! Look at all that has happened because of you, because of this city! They keep taking it! They keep trying to take it!"

"Take what?" Jack asked as he took two steps closer, trying to determine what his partner was trying to say. The pain had apparently not affected him after he landed on the pavement with a sickening thud, like a lifeless body hitting the street. After screaming himself hoa.r.s.e, his voice died to a whimper. Finally, Preston stopped moving.

Like Argosi or the driver now nestled beside the van, Preston turned the tables without warning. He was on his feet with his hands around Jack's throat almost instantly after his partner had stepped forward to help.

They stopped within inches of each other's faces when Preston began to squeeze. There was a distinct growl trying to escape his lips. Jack could see Preston's eyes straining, trying to stay open. His head fell forward, then jerked back up again. Preston stood precariously, as if numb. Even so, his grip around Jack's throat never relented.

Preston stared angrily into his partner's eyes, seeing the whites around the irises begin to turn a light pink from lack of oxygen. Preston took no satisfaction in this act. Detective Burroughs only knew that the rage inside him was in total control. His partner was trying to take him away, just like the city. If given the chance, Jack would make him vanish, no longer burdened by a mentally unstable partner. There was no other choice; he must strike first.

"I'm not trying to make you vanish," Jack managed to choke out, gasping for air. "You were speaking aloud, just now. You need to know how crazy this is, Preston. We can get you some help." His words were shallow in their oxygen-deprived state, but audible nonetheless.

Detective Paige could feel his throat soften, starting to give way in the moments before its inevitable collapse.

Without warning or reason, Preston released his grip, throwing his partner aggressively to the ground.

Jack coughed violently, gasping for air while resting on his back atop the scorching pavement. He had fallen sideways, his head turned to the right, unwilling to look away from his partner as he continued to stand over him.

At any moment, he could pull out his gun.

The heat from the asphalt was starting to burn, but he barely felt the pain. Instinctively, he turned his head, allowing his hair to absorb the brunt of the sting. If he was going to be shot, he would prefer to look away. Jack still hadn't regained control of his breathing, half expecting Preston's foot to kick him while he was down. Instead, there was nothing.

When Jack finally managed to rise, he caught the last glimpse of Preston disappearing into the stairwell door at the rear of the building. It had been held open by a beer can, probably by some tenant who had been out for a late night smoke the night before.

Jack knew instantly where his partner was headed. His apartment was on the fourth floor. It wouldn't take Preston long to reach it, especially in his heightened state. Preston had apparently overcome any lingering fatigue in the moments that he was strangling him. The man was now moving just as quickly as some of the young addicts on the street.

Jack removed his phone as he sprinted toward the door, forcing himself to inhale deeply. His throat burned intensely, but he managed to burst through the pain. What started as a slow stumble brought on by weakness covering his entire body quickly transitioned into a full-on run, somehow reaching the slow moving door before it closed.

"This is Detective Paige. I need backup at my apartment," he said into the phone, running through the threshold and into the stairwell. Looking up, he could see that Preston was already a floor above him. The enraged detective paused, leaning over the railing as he smiled sickly with blood-drenched teeth. "Have them send an ambulance, too," Jack relayed grimly to dispatch.

They locked eyes for a moment. Jack could already see that Preston was too far gone. He was worse than even the common street addicts, unhinged and vicious. Separated by only a few feet, they couldn't have been farther apart.

The typically constructed stairwell seemed to stretch on forever, far beyond Preston as he seemed to languish on the rail, held there by rage and suffering. Jack did the calculations in his head, trying to determine how quickly he could catch up to his partner.

After each group of steps, there was a cement landing and a door that opened to the hallway for every story. Judging by Preston's speed, even the Bloodstrife coursing through his veins hadn't allowed him to move any faster than his age would allow. He was still a middle-aged man, more than a little out of shape and probably winded due to a steady eighteen month diet of TV dinners and late lunches at the diner not far from the station.

Moreover, even coping with the pain of his rage, Preston appeared to be playing with him, halting his rush to the apartment the moment Jack had entered the door rather than continuing his sprint upward to maintain his lead.

Preston belted out a loud laugh that swallowed the inside of the stairwell before resuming his ascent up the steps. In what amounted to a slow gallop, it was clear that Preston was still toying with his partner. Jack followed him, fiercely motivated and moving more quickly than he had in his entire life. He'd burst into a full run the moment Preston had placed his foot on the next stair. The strain was monumental. He presumed to be in better shape than his partner, but still felt his heart was trying to force its way out of his chest.

Although not overweight, he'd noticed that he had put on a few pounds in recent years. Like Preston, it was slowing him down. Thoughts flooded his head along with the sudden rush of blood. He knew his family was most certainly at home, and the detective couldn't imagine what Preston would do to them if he got in the door first. Somehow, through a burst of adrenaline, Jack managed to increase his speed, skipping two steps at a time on his flight up the stairs.

Reaching the stairs after the first landing, Jack finally drew his gun in mid-stride. He gripped it tightly with his working hand while keeping his wounded arm close to his body.

"Preston!" he screamed. His voice echoed, traveling up the cement-bordered walls. Preston stopped for a moment just as he reached the third floor. Jack used his momentum to keep going, managing to catch up to Preston in less than a few seconds.

It was all the delay he'd needed to reach Preston. The game was over.

In the rush, Detective Paige was caught by surprise, seeing that Preston had jumped downward a few steps to meet him as he ran across the third floor landing. By the time Jack had traveled up the stairs, he ran into his partner, still out of his mind on the drug.

Preston seized on Jack's moment of hesitation and surprise, bringing up one of his arms. There was no longer any dark laughter or even a twisted smile on his partner's face before landing the blow. Preston screamed with fury as he struck Detective Paige in the left side of the face the moment he caught up, sending him down a few steps to the previous landing. Jack managed to stay upright, seeing Preston grimacing in what appeared to be pain as he clutched his hand after regaining his balance. It was clear there was no longer any emotion involved. His personality had deteriorated just as his scattered words had portrayed in the parking lot.

Preston Burroughs had lost his mind. Jack screamed as he rushed toward Preston, resolving to bring the confrontation to an end.

He jumped up the final step between them, striking Preston across the face in kind with his Ruger. Although thick red blood flew from his mouth, staining the wall, there was barely any damage done. Preston wasn't feeling pain. Jack hit him again, this time with his other fist, managing to strike him off balance. In the confusion, Jack succeeded in getting behind his partner, moving to the dominate position on the stairs.

Jack aimed steadily, his gun firmly trained on Preston with unwavering resolve. This time, he made sure that his partner was standing far enough down the stairs to prevent him from launching another sneak attack.

"Don't do it," Jack said, seeing Preston's hand disappear into his coat. His partner's face was angry, but lifeless, frozen in the void.

In the scuffle, he wasn't entirely sure if Preston had been able to retain possession of his Beretta. Jack had been in too much of a rush to realize he may have dropped it in the parking lot beside the van filled with Bloodstrife. However, it was still likely that he'd managed to hold on to Agent Wilson's sidearm.

Jack never took his eyes off Preston's arm, the hand concealed menacingly inside his wrinkled, filthy blazer. On the upper rim of his peripheral vision, he could see Preston's emotionless face begin to thaw slowly. It almost looked like he was etching it into a labored smile.

They stood silently. Jack wondered just how much of his partner had really been lost. If he pulled a gun, it was surely over. Any lingering chances of getting him back to his former self would vanish like fog with the rising sun. There was only one option left.

"What would Elisabeth think of you now?" Jack said, shaking his head in disgust.

Preston stood as if processing the information. Jack begged silently that it would work, knowing that was all he cared about.

Sadly, Preston only screamed at the mention of her name. His hand jerked inside the coat. The handle of Agent Wilson's gun had only peeked out of the lapel when Jack fired without a moment's hesitation, striking his partner in the leg. Preston screamed again, this time in pain, as he fell backward, landing on the cement stairs. He let out a stiff groan on each step as it rattled his spine on the way down, before crashing in a heap on the second floor landing. Simultaneously, the sound of his gun, Agent Wilson's former weapon, fell over the side rails. It continued to echo until it came to rest on the ground floor.

Jack wanted to drop to his knees as he came to realize that Preston had actually tried to kill him.

Somehow, Detective Paige managed to rush after his partner, still keeping his distance as he arrived on the second floor next to Preston. Immediately, he gave in, falling to his knees, both from the lack of air in his lungs and the realization that he may have done serious harm.

"Preston," he said softly, his weapon still aimed. "Preston, can you hear me?"

Preston's legs were elevated, resting clumsily on the final two steps. The rest of him was on the cement floor, still conscious and looking up at Jack.

The veins erupted again, covering every inch of his partner's body. Preston leapt, trying to attack him again. His teeth bared and ready to bite, Jack fired, managing to aim with some precision in the scuffle. The bullet went intentionally off course, striking Preston in the shoulder. Preston fell backward again, the veins subsiding instantly. His head wrenched to the side, striking the steel railing on the way back down. There had been no more screaming, only the sound of the shot followed by labored gasps, which gradually subsided.

After the thump of his body hitting the cement, there was a small, almost insignificant noise, like pebbles had been thrown down the stairs. They came to rest only a few inches from Jack on the landing, two pieces of Preston's teeth. White with a small tint of yellow, they were clean compared to the b.l.o.o.d.y mess that was the rest of his mouth.

Jack raised his injured hand to his mouth and began to cry. In his emotional state, he never holstered his weapon. It was trained steadily on Preston. Jack wondered if it would remain there forever.

Blood was pouring out of Preston, both from his mouth and the newly formed wounds on his head, leg, and shoulder. It was a much darker red, the usual crimson intermingled with black catalyzed wrath.

Jack heard the sirens in the background, seeping in distantly from the still open door on the ground level. He rose, no longer caring about the physical or mental pain.

Before proceeding downstairs, he reluctantly lifted Preston's shirt. There, on his chest, just where the surgeons said they had seen the word Pride on Priscilla Andrews, he saw the word Envy in flowing letters. It was written like all the others, wavy with black lettering. It was faded and light, as if not fully formed. In truth, the tattoo looked as if it had been there for decades, eroded by age. He hoped that Argosi, that Greed, hadn't been lying. Jack hoped that Preston was able to be saved.

Chapter 21.

The darkness was tangible, as if he'd fallen into a deep pool of it from above. Submerging him, it felt like he was lying in the palm of a giant hand, crushing him beneath the weight of the void. It surrounded him completely, deeper than every sleep from which he'd ever dreamed.

Preston awoke, startled in a hospital bed. He found himself unable to move with much success, trying to remember how he got there.

Looking around, he presumed to be located in a somewhat isolated wing of Chicago General. There were no other patients in the room, and it was relatively silent.

Cops tended to get that sort of treatment.