Rex Matheson always thought he’d know when it was his time. Maybe in the field, maybe in some back alley with a bullet to the chest—but not like this. Not here. Not now.The world had just started breathing again. People could die again. That was supposed to be a good thing. But not for him. Not in this moment.

Charlotte Wills—traitor, CIA double agent, murderer—was running, but Rex caught her. Of course he did. He was trained for this. He was built for this. But Charlotte was faster with the gun. She spun around before he could stop her.The muzzle flash lit up the church hallway.Bang.

The first bullet tore into his gut. The second caught his chest. He staggered back, eyes wide, hands pressing against the wounds, feeling hot blood spill between his fingers.This was it. This was death. For real this time.His knees buckled, and the cold floor of the church caught him as the world tilted sideways. Sounds faded. Everything blurred. He could just barely make out Gwen’s voice—sharp, panicked. Rhys shouting. Jack’s footsteps getting closer.

Jack.

Of course it ended like this. Torchwood. Always messy. Always personal.His vision tunneled, black closing in at the edges. His body went still.Rex Matheson died.For a few terrifying seconds—or was it minutes?—there was nothing. No light, no afterlife, just a blank, bottomless void. But then…Something kicked back.A jolt. A breath.His heart refused to stop.Blood rushed again. Lungs filled. Eyes snapped open. The pain was still there, but so was he.

Alive.Immortal.His head rolled to the side, eyes locking onto Jack Harkness—the man who started all of this, the so-called immortal standing over him. Rex let out a shaky, breathless laugh. Of course. Of course it was Jack. He smirked through the pain, voice rough but laced with his usual sarcasm.

“World War Two—what the hell did you do to me?”