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their muffled sobs beneath the cloth. He knew who these people were. Their faces haunted his life. But knowledge could do nothing to stop this dream from unfolding.
    Two shots, clean and quick. Their blood pooled on the carpet, seeping towards him. He tried to back away but the blood followed him. He began to panic, knowing what was going to happen next. Memory didn't disappoint.
    Familiar, hated hands settled on his shoulders, holding his struggling body still for the encroaching wetness. "Don't be ashamed," a raspy, disembodied voice spoke from the air. "Now everything you want is yours. And you're all mine..."
    Hands slid down the front of his chest in a sensual caress, pulling at his shirt. He fought against the grip, his stomach roiling. He tried to yank the hands away but his grip was too slippery. When he looked down to see why he discovered that his own hands were stained with blood.
    The black wetness was everywhere, soaking his clothes, his face -- he could taste it in his mouth when he screamed. He watched as the bandanas were removed from the two bodies lying on the carpet. He knew whom he would see. He didn't want to, shaking his head around a silent scream of denial.
    But when the cloths were removed his heart stopped. Not the same nightmare. This one was even worse. The dead faces of his teammates -- Max and Lucas -- stared up at him.
    "Don't be ashamed. Now everything you want is yours." A chuckle sounded near his ear. "And you're all mine..."
    The dream shattered as Black shot upright in bed. A scream welled in his throat, seconds from bursting free. He clenched his jaw to hold it in. Gasping, his first frantic instinct was to look to the bed beside him. A shaky breath that would have surprised his teammates fluttered past his lips. The sheets next to him were empty just as they should be, the way he made certain they were. No one -- no one -- would ever know that the leader of Juxtapose City's most powerful elite police force woke up some mornings with a fear in his heart that left him shivering in the sheets. No one would ever know. He would sooner die.
    He ran a hand down his face. Not yet six in the morning. His alarm would go off in another four minutes. He turned off the alarm and sat in the sheets for a moment, ruthlessly sweeping the last remnants of the nightmare from the corners of his mind. Today was an important day for JC2; he needed to be clear-headed and composed. Today they were integrating two new members. One of them was Calyx Starr.
    He slid from the bed and began to dress because he needed the distraction of movement. He pulled on blue sweatpants and a JCPD T-shirt. He tugged a windbreaker over his shoulders before kneeling to tie on running shoes. The laces shook, refusing to cooperate. He stared at his trembling hands a moment before curling them into fists. Not now , he told himself angrily.
    He went to the connecting bathroom and ran the tap. Cool water flowed over his cupped hands before he splashed his face with it. Go away , he demanded, throwing more water in his face as if he could dash away the memories. Don't make me remember .
    When he raised his dripping face and looked in the mirror he didn't like what he saw. He looked his age. Being the youngest team leader in JCPD's history, that was not a good thing. Water dripped from his soaked brown bangs -- too long, he reflected distantly -- and spilled onto his pale cheeks. He looked like his mother. That's what he had been told. The wide brown eyes -- currently sunken from lack of restful sleep -- were definitely hers. Her mouth -- yes, generous lips now tightened to a pale slash. Definitely her cheekbones. But the rest was his father's from pure luck rather than genetics -- from the skin that tanned so easily to the firm, stubborn jaw. The chin was different, new. It kept him from being taken too lightly, from veering into "pretty".
    A face that was not his. It stared back at him looking too tired, too strained with the attempt to