So as I look back at my older fanfiction stories, I realize that this one had a lot of potential and decided to pick it up again. I hope you all like it since I worked pretty hard on this one, and just a warning: this has a lot of swearing, so I'm changing the rating to 'M'. This chapter is basically a flashback before he did jail time and even though I don't specify it just yet, Jace is about 20 years old.

Songs:

This Is War-30 Seconds To Mars (as Jace is thinking back to the murder)

Sanctuary (Original Mix) -Gareth Emery (Jace in the club, only because I love this song)

Secrets-One Republic

Listen to them! The worst that can happen is that you don't like the songs…Give 'em a chance!

Eleven years ago…

The smell of linoleum, lemon-scented cleaner, coffee and worn paper welcome me as I step into the Department of Special Circumstances Office, my second home. The fluorescent light above me flickers on and off rapidly and I make a mental note to get Jeffrey the Janitor on it as soon as possible.

"Agent 77, it's nice to see you've decided to grace us with your presence," Reeves smiles innocuously once I open the frosted glass door in front of me and step inside. "Twenty minutes late. New personal record?" He's at the head of the table and I feel the corner of my lips twitch downwards. So the head honcho is talking this time, I muse. This in no way, shape or form can be good.

"You know me," I smile back. "Always setting myself goals to achieve in order to piss you off before I really get started. Today is twenty, tomorrow I'm thinking thirty is good?"

The corner of Reeves' mouth twitches and I know I've got him. Taking up the only empty chair besides Schreiber, I lean back so that my weight is only on the two hind legs. Pressing Reeves buttons makes working here that much more entertaining.

"So as I was saying," Reeves continues, the edge in his voice lost since all he's thinking about is me, "this case isn't like any we've seen before."

I raise my hand, but choose to speak anyway. "So sorry to interrupt," I say as I lean forward, reveling the twitch in Reeves' left eye as the chair's front legs hit the ground, "but since when have we seen a case like the others before? I mean, that would defeat the point of a Special Circs Department, no? If every case were the same, then the PD would have our cases."

"It's so refreshing to have you present in our meetings," Reeves said snidely. "Really, a true gift. And to go on, we believe that we have a lead in this case." If it weren't for the fact that I was scrutinizing Reeves' face, I would've probably missed the flash of fear behind his eyes. Reeves? Afraid? That's possible?

On the outside, anyone would've been scared shitless to mess with Reeves. For a man gracefully entering his late forties, he towers at about six foot two inches with ropy muscles that could destroy a whole tank by just embracing it–not to mention the jagged scar that tugged at the corner of his right eye all the way down to the right corner of his mouth, permanently fixing it to a grimace. He earned that one in war and made sure no one forgot how.

The sweat that covers his shiny dome makes the light flare off his head like a beacon, but that's not what catches my attention and sets me on edge. It's the way that flash of fear that crosses Reeves face transforms into a look of pain. Then, when he turns that sorrowful look to me, I already know what he's about to say.

"This serial killer might not be a newbie," Reeves says directly to me. I feel like the air has been knocked right out of my lungs and as Reeves continues rehashing the Morgenstern case for the other agents, I feel the world slowly fade to black. A cold, ruthless black that starts to fill with color until a scene begins to unfold in front of my very eyes.

The Morgenstern case took place in August 31, 2008–two years ago, for those of you who are bad at math. Around seven thirty at night, blood-curdling screams were heard from the Morgenstern's next-door neighbors. They called the police because of this, but by the time we got to the scene of the crime, the perp had gotten away. He left no evidence behind–not a single skin cell or hair follicle for us to hold against him. We scoured the place for evidence from head-to-toe, but it was spotless.

So we interrogated the only survivor of the murder –he had hid himself in the bathroom and apparently, once the perp broke into the house, he only stayed on the first floor, where the rest of the family was having dinner. Apparently, the son had come home late from being at a friend's house and had already eaten, so he went straight into the shower on the second floor. Mid-shower was when the first screams took place.

The son jumped out of the shower immediately, recognizing the shrill scream as his mother's. Once he wrapped a towel around his waist, he stepped out and leaned over the banister to witness his mother's corpse bleed out while his father was in the midst of being slashed to death by a man donning a black body suit. His brother was trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but once the man was done with the father, he moved towards the brother.

The boy–only eighteen years old at the time–was frozen in place until his father's eyes locked onto his son's and transmitted the last message he could before dying: hide.

And so he did, not because he couldn't bring himself to face the killer, but because he couldn't disobey his own father.

The cuts the police discovered were somewhat shallow, but since they covered each body head-to-toe, it was enough to kill the victims. The cuts also left them to believe the perp decided to use shaving razor as his weapon for the sole reason that the sick bastard reveled in torturing his victims.

We still don't know why this guy targeted the Morgensterns since it seems very obvious they have no enemies, or why this man decided to strike up again, this time taking the lives of three very random victims. We are left to believe that he may have just saw the opportunity to kill, or that whatever reason he has against the Morgensterns and these three other victims are unbeknownst to us…

Stalking out of the conference room feeling a notch above dead, I manage to make it to the elevator before I sense someone behind me. Knowing that I'm in a government office and that it's very much doubtful that the person behind me is some lunatic, I resist the urge to pluck up my gun and shoot whomever is behind me once in the head and twice in the heart.

"Hey," Reeves rasps once I turn around. "Look–I'm sorry for causing you any discomfort back there. You know that deep down inside this brute, there's a true man inside that has feelings and I understand that–"

I hold a hand up, silencing him. "It's fine," I say, forcing a smile on my face. "I get that besides our playful little bantering, you care. I understand that. But, really, if what you say is true, then count me in on this one. I'm all for the vendetta, you know. It'll keep me focused, since now things are personal."

Reeves–another firstie–actually shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other and focuses his gaze on the elevator doors behind me. "About that," he sighs, rubbing his shiny baldhead. "Listen, I want you on this case just as badly as you probably want to be on it, but since it's really personal with you…"

I can't believe my ears. Did he seriously just tell one of the Agency's best men to stand down for a top case like this? This bastard has been at it for about ten years–killing about maybe fifty or so people way before even considering murdering my own family for Christ's sake –and still hasn't left any shred of evidence? He wasn't just good; he was scary good. And that's exactly why they shouldn't take me off a case so damn good! I'm always the first guy at the scene, the first one to see a connection and sure as hell the first to bring the perp down, once again protecting millions of lives like I do on the daily!

"You can't be serious," I deadpan. "Seriously, Reeves, you got one fucked-up sense of humor if you think I'm just going to stand down and let you guys solve this one without helping at all. This is my family's killer for Christ's sake!"

Reeves sighs and I can't help but notice the pain in his face. Maybe this isn't easy on him, but it sure isn't some walk in the park for me, either. "I know, Agent. But the government has some stupid law out there about cops and agents not being able to work on cases that hit home–something about it causing them to be biased, or it being 'too hard' for them to deal with."

" 'Too hard'?" I could feel my body vibrate with rage. "Too hard? Are you kidding me, Reeves? You really want to know what's 'too hard'? Standing not even a few feet away, completely naked, in front of the man who's in the middle of killing your whole damn family and not being able to do a single damn thing about it! Now, you tell me what's too hard and what isn't!"

I clam up, knowing all too well the consequences of blowing a gasket in front of Reeves and storm into the elevator–which, to my convenience, opens up at the right time. I jab my finger on the main lobby button and fixate my eyes on it instead of Reeves as he says, "Sleep on it" before the elevator doors shut.

On their own accord, my feet lead me to Hunter's Moon a few blocks away and as I enter the bar, my nostrils are assaulted by the overwhelming combined scent of liquor, sweat and cigars. I plop down on the closest stool, down a few glasses of Scotch before paying and leaving a few minutes later since I'm not in the whole "sittin' in a bar" mood. I want to forget, to lose myself somewhere else, where the haunting memories of my past can't catch me. But before I'm out the door, I ask the bartender for directions to the closest club and thank her after she scrawls seven digits into my palm with a wink and a kiss on the cheek.

I space out as my feet guide me to the club according to what the bartender told me and almost pass it if it weren't for the glowing neon blue letters that spelt "PANDEMONIUM". I try not to roll my eyes at the cliché 'enticing name' or even at the bunch of obvious underage kids that cover their bodies with either tattoos or piercings who are waved away from the line.

Once I'm inside the club, I cough a few times, not used to the whole 'dark foggy atmosphere' and blink a few times in order to adjust my sight to the near blackness of the club save for the dizzying light show. I take a deep breath and instead of going directly to the dance floor, I walk over to the bar to 'properly prepare myself for the night's inevitable events'.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks me. I look up from my hands–which, at this point, are shaking with nerves–and inhale sharply when I'm immediately blown away by the bartender. She has fiery red hair, porcelain white skin with a splatter of freckles across her cheekbones and wide, green emerald eyes that are at the moment, cautiously observing me.

"Well, for starters, I'd like a Scotch," I say in my most charming voice. "And then your name and number, please." The effects are obvious; the blush that slowly pools into her cheeks, the way she immediately focuses on my hands instead of my face and the way she bites her lip.

Getting to work, she whips me up a Scotch on the rocks in no time. I down it just as fast and smile at her. God, she is just so beautiful. I used to think Kaelie was quite the looker, but I must be blind, deaf and stupid to think that right now. There is just no comparison, whatsoever.

"Well, the name is on the tag," the girl–Clary, if I read it properly–gestures to her tag where indeed, her name is printed in bold lettering. "As for the number, you've got a lot ahead of you if you think you can get both my name and number on the same night."

"The night is still young," I counter, reveling as the blood in her cheeks once more lends her face color. "And I've got plenty of time for a good chase."

A few hours later, we're back in my place doing something I never thought possible with such an outstandingly attractive woman–talking. Talking and laughing, without any clothes off or even within the confines of my bedroom! And the strangest thing of all is that I'm perfectly okay with that–more than, actually. What is up with this fiery chick and what did she do to the Old Me?

"…And so I said, 'well, are you just going to stand there and ogle at me all day or are you going to fire me?'" Clary laughs–a wonderful sound that I could listen to all day–while rocking back and forth in her chair across from me. I laugh too, because regardless of how corny the story is, she sparks something in me. Something that should alarm me with the novelty of it all, but instead, I'm enjoying every second of it.

After the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence fills the void and I take the opportunity to really look at her. She's staring down at the wine glass in her hands with great interest, her hair falling over her face like a veil and just as I get the feeling she's covering her face on purpose, she lifts her head up and smiles at me.

"Hey, don't hide yoursseelff from meee noww," I slur.

"God, you're so drunk," she giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. I watch in a 'drunken stupor' as she stands up and teeters over to me, gently pries the empty wine glass from my hands and sets it down on the glass coffee table in front of me. A whiff of lemon and lavender drift my way and I lean in to inhale its wonderful scent.

"Why are you sniffing me?" she giggles again, nudging me so that I leaned back against the sofa. I smile, reach up and grab her hips to yank her down on top of me, which causes her to squeal before she holds her hands out and stops herself. Her face lingers just a few inches away from mine.

"Because you smell so good," I said coyly, the lust taking over my senses.

"So you aren't as drunk as I presumed," she breathed as I closed my eyes and relish the heat radiate off her body.

Holding my palms up, I chuckle. "You got me." But before she could reply, I grab her wrists and yank them behind me, causing her to fall directly on top of me.

The instant our lips touch, sparks fly like electricity. I'm at first taken aback by how potent the passion is in this kiss–a kiss I only dreamed of having with Kaelie and never accomplished–but the surprised dissolves into a hunger for more. Now that I have my kiss, I want to enjoy every second of it.

Reaching out, I grab Clary's legs and pull her up so that she's straddling me. She gasps and moans as my hands snake their way up her thighs and around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

This feels so right, like all my life I've been searching for something more than I didn't even realize until I found it: Clary. Someone so wonderful, so sweet, so…

Suddenly, the kiss tastes bitter. It doesn't feel right anymore, it feels downright wrong. Like I shouldn't be sitting here and kissing her; I should be talking to her and getting to know her better. Conflicted and confused beyond anything, I reluctantly break off the kiss and pull back. Taking in the hurt and confusion in her eyes, I focus on detaching my hands from her waist.

"Did I do anything wrong?" she asks, pain straining her voice.

"No, I–can we…?" I gently push her off me so that we're sitting side-by-side on the couch. Leaning forward so that my elbows rest on my knees, I rake my hands through my hair and tug on it to speed up the sobering process.

"It's not you," I sigh. "It just–don't get me wrong, it felt more than amazing, it's just…" I drop my hands and force myself to look at her, knowing that if I speak to her with direct eye-contact, she won't assume I'm lying.

"I want to talk some more," I conclude. "I want to know you, know every single aspect of you. I want to befriend you first, to tell you things and–ah, hell. You probably think I'm some creep right now, don't you?"

Clary smiles a little, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Just a little. But I see where you're coming from, so the sincerity is there."

More than relieved I got my point across, I stand up and hold my hand out for her. "I want to take you out," I announce. "Right now. I want to take you to a nice restaurant so that we'll have the time of our lives."

Clary openly gapes at me, then looks down at her plain outfit–a white t-shirt and jean shorts–before looking up at me and smiling again. "It's a little too late for that, don't you think? What nice restaurants are open at one thirty in the morning? And besides, I'm just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, plus I stink. Some jerks spilled alcohol on me. Can we do this…tomorrow night? So I can dress up and be more presentable?"

I ponder this for a bit, the Scotch and Cabernet making it difficult to think rationally, and finally nod in agreement. "All right," I concede. "I'll take you out tomorrow. What time works for you?"

Clary shakes her head and laughs in disbelief. "I can't believe this is actually happening right now, but around seven I'm free. I'm not working tomorrow either, so I'm free all night."

At that, my smile broadens. "Not anymore, you aren't."

So there's the little flashback, and maybe if I get more reviews, I'll show you what happens next ;]