It was the third day in a row that Jack didn’t say a single pun during breakfast, and that’s when the others really started to worry.

Dirk paused mid-bite of his apocalypse stew (cheese puffs, canned chili, and three slices of cold pizza) and looked across the table. “Okay,” he said, pointing his spoon like a weapon, “what is up with him?”

Jack was sitting on the other side of the treehouse, legs hanging over the railing, staring blankly at the skyline of the ruined town. He’d barely touched his food. His usual animated storytelling—complete with monster impressions and sword-swooshing gestures—was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t even tried to reenact yesterday’s Sludge-Monster takedown. That wasn’t just weird. That was… suspiciously un-Jack-like.

Quint glanced over the rim of his goggles. “He’s been showing signs of distraction. Fatigue. A reduction in verbal output. There’s definitely something cognitive happening.”

“You mean he’s sad,” June said flatly, arms crossed. “Or scared. Or bottling up something like a soda can that’s been shook ten times too many.”

Dirk squinted at Jack again. “He hasn’t even made a single lame battle cry in three days.”

“He did say ‘ugh,’” Quint offered.

“Nope. Doesn’t count,” Dirk said. “That’s just a sad grunt. That’s not Jack.”

It was quiet for a moment as all three of them watched him from across the room.

Jack didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

He sat hunched, elbow on his knee, chin in his palm, eyes unfocused. Every now and then, he blinked like he was waking up from a dream—but then he’d just drift off again. Like his brain was somewhere else entirely. Like he was waiting for something he couldn’t name.

“He hasn’t even touched his comics,” June added after a moment, voice low. “They’ve been sitting on the floor in a pile since Monday.”

That earned a shared glance. That was bad.

“Okay,” Dirk said, standing up. “What’s the plan? We all go over there and group-hug him till he cracks?”

“No, no,” Quint said, adjusting his goggles. “Too much pressure. Jack’s used to being the one who fixes things. If we swarm him, he’ll just double-down on the ‘I’m fine’ routine.”

“So what? We just wait?” Dirk asked, annoyed. “Hope he snaps out of it?”

June shook her head, already walking toward the ladder. “No. We don’t wait. I’ll talk to him. Alone.”

Quint and Dirk exchanged looks but didn’t argue. June got it. She always had.

And Jack needed someone who wouldn’t push too hard—but wouldn’t let him drift off, either.

Because whatever was pulling Jack away from them, it wasn’t going to let go on its own.