Jack Lewis' life began with a quiet kind of disappointment-the sort that doesn't explode, but settles like dust. He worked in a windowless back office of a regional shipping company, sorting mislabeled packages and answering emails no one wanted to send. Every day felt like a photocopy of the last. No danger. No mystery. No pulse.
But Jack had a suspicion-an itch behind the ribs-that something was missing. Not purpose. Not passion. Something stranger. Something he couldn't name.