The bell above the door of Mario’s Pizza jingled endlessly that night, but every cheerful sound felt wrong to Marcus Reid. Laughter bounced off the red-brick walls, plates clattered, and the smell of melted cheese and garlic hung thick in the air. It should have been perfect. This was the place his team always came after a win. This was tradition.Tonight, it felt like a lie.Marcus sat in the corner booth, half-hidden behind his teammates, his back pressed against the vinyl seat. The gold medal lay heavy in his jacket pocket, pulling at the fabric like an anchor. He could feel it every time he shifted, cold against his thigh, as if reminding him that joy was supposed to exist right now.But it didn’t.Across the table, his teammates replayed the competition shot by shot, arguing loudly about who had almost beaten Marcus and how close it had been. Someone raised a soda in mock salute. Someone else slapped Marcus on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.“To the future Olympic champ

.The police station smelled like old coffee and cold air.Marcus Reid sat on a hard metal chair with his hands locked in front of him. The silver handcuffs felt too tight, biting into his skin every time he moved. His wrists hurt, but he didn’t complain. Pain didn’t matter anymore.Nothing did.His ears rang as voices moved around him. Police radios crackled. Phones rang. Shoes squeaked on the floor. Everyone was busy.Everyone except him.Marcus stared at the table in front of him. There was a dark mark on the wood, like someone had spilled ink there years ago and never cleaned it up. He focused on it because if he didn’t, his mind went somewhere worse.Mom on the floor.Dad against the wall.Blood.His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe right.A door opened.Detective Raymond Chen walked in, holding a folder. His face looked tired. His eyes looked sad, but also careful, like he was afraid of stepping on something sharp.“Marcus,” Chen said quietly. “I need to ask you some more qu

The outside world hit Marcus like a physical blow.Colors seemed too bright. Sounds too loud. The city had changed in ways he couldn't immediately process. Everyone stared at glowing rectangles in their hands, cars looked sleeker and quieter, buildings he remembered were gone or transformed into something unrecognizable.Uncle James waited by an old sedan, his hair completely gray now, his face lined with twelve years of worry. When their eyes met, the older man's composure crumbled."Marcus." His voice broke.They embraced, and Marcus felt his uncle's shoulders shake. For a moment, neither man spoke. Words felt inadequate for what had been stolen, for what could never be returned."I never stopped believing in you," Uncle James said finally, pulling back to look at Marcus properly. "Not for one day.""I know." Marcus's voice was rougher than he remembered, deepened by years of guarded silence. "You're the only one who came. Every month.""Your sister—""Don't." Marcus cut him off, ja

That night, Marcus couldn't sleep.The bed was too soft. The room too quiet. He kept waiting for the count, for the night guard's flashlight sweeping his cell, for the sounds of men crying or fighting or dying in the dark.At 2 AM, he gave up and did pushups until his arms shook. Then sit-ups. Then he stood in the center of the room and practiced the breathing techniques his father had taught him for shooting slow inhale, hold, exhale. Control the heart rate. Control the mind.His father's voice echoed in his memory: "Shooting isn't about the gun, son. It's about discipline. Control. The ability to stay calm when everything around you is chaos."Marcus had learned those lessons well. But he'd applied them to survival, not sport.At dawn, he pulled on running shoes and headed out. The city was just waking up delivery trucks rumbling past, early commuters hurrying to subway stations, homeless people huddled in doorways.Marcus ran until his lungs burned and his legs screamed. He ran pas

Marcus woke at 4:30 AM, his body conditioned by thirteen years of prison routines. The alarm he'd set an old wind-up clock Uncle James had provided hadn't even gone off yet.He showered quickly in lukewarm water, the building's temperamental heater offering little comfort. He dressed in his work clothes, jeans and the plain gray t-shirt and forced down two slices of bread with peanut butter. It sat heavy in his stomach, but he'd need the energy.By 5:45 AM, Marcus stood outside the gates of Peterson Construction, his new-used work boots stiff on his feet, gloves tucked into his back pocket. The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in shades of orange and pink.Other workers began arriving in trucks and beat-up cars, eyeing Marcus with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He kept his head down, his posture non-threatening but not weak. Prison had taught him how to read a room, how to position himself to avoid unnecessary conflict while not appearing as prey.At exactly 6 AM