Jack Young perked up and shot Femi Foster a question: "If the cops haul me in for crashing here illegally, could you spring me?"
"Give me a bit, I can swing it," Femi Foster replied, eyeing Jack Young and catching on. "Wait—are you seriously thinking of..."
"Bingo. I want to get myself locked up. Seriously, what’s safer than jail? Plus, we’ll see if your theory holds: if Death can’t get to someone, does it just freeze up?" Jack Young clapped Femi Foster on the shoulder. "Relax, just keep lending me your phone. If anything goes sideways, I’ll call you."
"Fine, I’ll track down that old man the Kid in Black rescued. But hey, they don’t let prisoners have phones—how’re you gonna reach me?"
Jack Young just grinned, said nothing, and waved as he strolled out.
Half an hour later, Jack Young found himself at the city police station. The place looked straight out of an American cop flick—and Jack’s trip through the system was just as cinematic. In the interrogation room, his hands were cuffed behind his back, and a hefty cop plopped his rear right on the desk across from him. A spotlight snapped on, blinding Jack.
"Well, well, we finally meet, you little stowaway. Or maybe you’re more than that—maybe you’ve got some secret identity?" The chubby cop leaned in, trying to look tough. "Subway wreck, a hundred-plus dead, and you walk away. Plaza pileup, six dead, twenty-something hurt, and you stroll off again. Our town’s not big on major crime, but that day, you made the big leagues! We were running around like headless chickens, and you just waltz up to an officer. You’re one suspicious character, you know that?"
Smack! The chubby cop slammed the desk and barked, "Out with it! Who are you? What’s your story? Who do you work for? Which country sent you? Don’t make me mad—start talking!"
Jack Young sat cool as a cucumber, eyes flickering as he adjusted to the glare. He took a deep breath, cocked his head, and let out a sharp "tsk tsk." "Honestly, I expected better from you. Big Guy, if you’ve got any guts, toss me in the slammer!"
A vein bulged on the chubby cop’s forehead. He balled up his fists and stomped over to Jack Young.
Twenty minutes later, Jack Young was escorted by two burly officers to the entrance of a cell. The fat cop, now sporting a black eye and a cotton plug in one nostril, hollered from two meters behind Jack, "Kid, we can't send you to prison without a trial, but our local detention center is famous! Ever heard the 'drop the soap' story? The tough guys in this cell have been waiting a long time—they're gonna love a fresh pretty boy like you. Get in there and enjoy!"
Jack Young glanced at his ten or so 'cellmates,' a mix of black and white faces, and clicked his tongue twice, eyes slanted. "These wimps want me to 'drop the soap'? You'll need to bring a hundred more before that's a problem."
The cellmates stood up at his words, cracking their knuckles and grinning menacingly with the fat cop's approval, slowly closing in. Jack Young glanced back at the fat cop. "One last tip: you really shouldn't stand so close to watch the show."
Ten minutes later, Jack Young was shoved into a 'single room.' Four walls of concrete, pitch black and silent. The only exit was a thick iron door with two windows that only opened from the outside—one for talking, one for food. With a swish, the top window slid open, revealing the fat cop's face.
Sporting a full set of panda eyes, the fat cop stuffed more cotton into his other nostril and grumbled, "This is the fanciest room in the whole detention center! It's dark, lonely, and claustrophobic. Last time, even a tough guy couldn't last three days in here before cracking. Let's see how long you last!"
"Hmm, this room's not bad. I'm pretty satisfied," Jack Young grinned at the fat cop. "By the way, aren't you worried I'll poke your eyes out if you stick your face so close?"
"You!" The fat cop jumped back in fright, then tried to sound tough. "Keep talking! You'll be begging me to let you out soon enough!" Bang—the window slammed shut, and the little dark room fell silent.
Stretching his arms and legs, Jack Young sat down on the bed in the corner. If there's anywhere safe from Death's attacks, prison tops the list. In a regular jail, anything dangerous is strictly controlled—even the toilets are welded to the wall, and kitchen knives are counted every day. As for the solitary cell, the security's even tighter.
The prison staff took all these precautions to prevent inmates from getting anything dangerous and causing trouble. Right now, Jack Young was grateful for it—he'd finally found a place he could relax. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the unsettling vibe around him seemed to fade away, like even Death was stumped on how to cause an 'accident' in the solitary cell.
Safe, peaceful, and they even bring food on schedule! Sure, the grub's basically inedible, but Jack Young snuck in some goodies, so he's not worried about eating. With all this, is there anywhere better for a retreat than here?
So Jack Young sat cross-legged on the bed and slowly closed his eyes. His breathing grew deep and steady—he was about to shut off his senses and dive into a deep meditation.
His consciousness drifted toward a mysterious point at the top of his head. The crown chakra, usually dormant, finally glimmered faintly in his mental world. In that instant, Jack's mind was sucked into the crown, flashes of chaotic images whirling by—all of them revolving around one word: accident.
Accidental death—the core theme of recent days. A string of tiny mishaps leading to major consequences. From the present all the way back, Jack Young's mind raced through countless 'accident' memories and scenes: things he knew, things he'd heard, things he'd lived through.
Accidents are everywhere—they aren't just Death's exclusive trick in this world. Jack Young's consciousness drifted through countless accidents, until suddenly, the images froze. He saw a scene:
The sun was setting, the evening glow gilding the sky. A sloping road, a boy carrying a girl downhill against the wind. Cars roared by, the bike basket stuffed with groceries and snacks. There was a bag, its strap hanging on the handlebars, the bag itself covering the groceries. The wind whipped their hair, and they seemed to glide through a golden world. It was a beautiful summer day.
The boy turned to the girl, asking if she wanted to buy a bike together. Jack Young, watching from a ghostly, outsider's perspective, witnessed it all. His gaze was complicated; he remembered—on this day, this accident, unforgettable.