2025-12-19 14:35:30The night felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.
Neon lights flashed inside the arcade, blinking red and blue, spilling colors across the floor. Machines beeped and buzzed. Kids shouted in excitement. Music played from broken speakers. But none of it reached Marcus Reid.
He sat on a plastic chair near a racing game, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose. His phone lay dead in his pocket, the screen black no matter how many times he pressed the button. He had forgotten to charge it. For the first time in years, he wished he hadn’t.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
The gold medal was no longer in his jacket. He had taken it out earlier, afraid it would draw attention. Instead, the small black USB drive rested against his leg, hidden in the pocket. Marcus touched it again and again, as if checking that it was still real.
He tried to laugh when his friends joked. He tried to focus on the game in front of him. But his chest felt tight, like someone had tied a rope around it.
He kept seeing his father’s face.
The fear in his eyes.
The way his voice shook when he said promise me.
Marcus stood up suddenly.
“I need some air,” he muttered.
Jake looked up. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” Marcus lied. “Just tired.”
He stepped outside. Cool night air hit his face, but it didn’t help. He leaned against the wall and looked up at the sky. Clouds covered the stars. The street was quiet. Too quiet.
He checked the time on a wall clock through the glass.
9:42 PM.
A chill ran down his spine.
---
At exactly 9:45 PM, a dark shape moved across the front porch of the Reid family house
Inside, the house was warm and calm. The living room lamp was on. The TV played softly in the background. Jennifer Reid walked toward the front door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
She smiled.
“Marcus?” she called. “Did you forget your keys again?”
She opened the door.
The smile died on her face.
The man standing there was not her son.
He was tall. Strong. Dressed in black from head to toe. His eyes were empty, like nothing lived behind them. A gun rested in his gloved hand, pointed at her heart.
“Where’s the evidence?” the man asked.
Jennifer stepped back, shaking. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please—”
The sound was small. Short. Soft.
Phut.
Jennifer Reid fell to the floor.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t move.
Robert Reid heard the noise from his study. At first, he thought something had fallen. Then he heard the thump.
“Jennifer?” he shouted, standing up.
He ran into the hallway.
He saw his wife lying on the floor. Blood spread beneath her like spilled paint.
“No!” Robert screamed.
The man in black turned calmly and raised his gun.
Robert charged forward, grief and rage driving him. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He only wanted to reach his wife.
Two more soft sounds filled the house.
Phut. Phut.
Robert hit the wall hard and slid down. His eyes stayed open, shocked and confused, as his blood stained the wallpaper he had painted years ago with Marcus.
Upstairs, Sophie Reid sat at her desk.
Her math book was open. Her pencil lay untouched.
She heard the sounds.
They didn’t sound like gunshots to her. They sounded like heavy books falling. She frowned, scared.
“Mom?” she called.
No answer.
Her heart began to race.
Slowly, Sophie stood and walked to the hallway. She peeked through the wooden bars at the top of the stairs.
She saw her parents.
She saw the blood.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out
Then she sobbed.
The man downstairs looked up.
Their eyes met.
Sophie screamed.
She ran.
She ran back to her room, slammed the door shut, and dove into her closet. She pushed past coats and shoes, curled into a ball, and covered her mouth with her hands.
She cried silently.
Footsteps came closer.
Slow.
Heavy.
The closet door opened.
Light spilled inside.
The man knelt down so his face was level with hers.
He did not point the gun at her.
That scared her more.
“You heard them fighting,” the man whispered. His voice was soft, almost kind. “You heard your brother, Marcus, yelling at your daddy.”
Sophie shook her head, crying.
“Yes, you did,” he said gently. “Marcus was angry. He picked up the gun. You heard your daddy say, ‘Put it down, son.’ Remember that.”
Sophie’s mind was breaking. Her heart hurt. Her world was falling apart.
The man’s words filled the cracks.
“Yes,” she whispered, confused and scared.
The man stood.
“You’re a good girl,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
Then he was gone.
---
At 10:15 PM, Jake’s car turned onto Marcus’s street.
Marcus leaned forward.
His house was glowing blue and red.
Police cars.
Sirens.
People.
“That’s my house,” Marcus whispered.
Jake slammed the brakes. “Marcus—”
Marcus was already out of the car.
He ran.
He pushed past yellow tape. Someone grabbed him. He pulled free. He didn’t care. He reached the front steps just as two bodies were rolled out under white sheets.
“MOM!” Marcus screamed. “DAD!”
His legs gave out.
He fell to his knees.
The world went dark.
A man knelt beside him. “Marcus Reid?”
Marcus looked up, tears blurring his vision.
“I’m Detective Raymond Chen,” the man said softly. “I’m so sorry. Your parents are gone.”
Marcus felt like his heart had been ripped out.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”
Then the questions started.
“Where were you tonight?”
“Who were you with?”
“What time did you leave home?”
Marcus answered, shaking.
Then another detective stepped forward holding a plastic bag.
Inside was his father’s rifle.
“We found this in the bushes,” the man said. “It came from your house.”
“That’s my dad’s gun,” Marcus said weakly.
“Only two people knew the safe code,” the detective said. “You and your father.”
Marcus felt sick.
“We also found gun residue on your jacket,” the man continued. “And
messages you sent your father earlier. You seemed very angry.”
“I didn’t send those!” Marcus shouted. “My phone was dead!”
He reached into his pocket.
The USB drive was gone.
His breath stopped.
“No… no, no…”
“It’s missing,” Marcus said. “My dad gave me a drive. It proves someone threatened him!”
The detective shook his head. “Victor Castellano has an alibi.”
Handcuffs clicked shut.
As they led Marcus away, he saw Victor standing under a streetlight.
Victor smiled.
And Marcus knew.
His life was over.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
The Weight Of Survival
Marcus returned to work the next day at 5:50 AM, ten minutes early. His body screamed in protest with every movement, but he ignored it. Pain was temporary. Losing this job would be permanent.Brian was already there, coffee in hand, reviewing the day's assignments on his clipboard."Reid. You're early.""Yes, sir.""Good." Brian studied him, noting the new boots, the better gloves. "Tommy says you did solid work yesterday. Keep it up and we'll talk about more responsibility.""Thank you, sir. I will."The day's work was just as brutal as the first hauling lumber, mixing concrete, digging trenches. But Marcus's new boots fit better with thick socks, and the leather gloves protected his ravaged hands.By lunch, Tommy brought him another sandwich. This time, Marcus tried to refuse."I can't keep taking your food.""My wife makes too much," Tommy insisted. "Besides, you need the calories. Construction work burns through energy fast. Trust me, you'll pay it forward someday."Marcus accept
First Blood and Small Mercies
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
Fresh start
Marcus stood outside the thrift store for a long moment before going in.The glass window was dusty. A sign reading DONATIONS WELCOME hung slightly crooked on the door. Inside, rows of old clothes and shoes were stacked neatly, each one carrying a story that no one asked about anymore.Marcus pushed the door open.A small bell rang.The smell inside was a mix of old fabric and cleaning soap. It reminded him of the prison laundry room, but quieter. Calmer.He walked slowly between the shelves, his hands in his jacket pockets. He had twenty-seven dollars left. That was it. No second chances. No mistakes allowed.He stopped in front of a rack of boots.Most of them were too big. Too small. Cracked. Torn.Then he saw them.Steel-toed boots.They were dark brown, scuffed at the sides, the leather worn thin in places. But the soles were thick, and the metal at the front was still strong. Work boots. The kind made for long hours and hard ground.Marcus picked one up and pressed the sole with
Sleepless Nights
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
Rejection And Resolve
Marcus spent the next week looking for work.He filled out applications at every business he passed. Fast food restaurants. Warehouses. Retail stores. Construction sites. He answered honestly when they asked about his record lying would only make things worse if they found out.The responses were always the same."We'll call you." (They never did.)"We're not hiring right now." (The "Help Wanted" sign said otherwise.)"I'm sorry, but with your background..." (At least they were honest.)One manager at a grocery store looked him up on his phone, read the headlines from thirteen years ago, then literally stepped back as if Marcus might attack him."I can't have a murderer working here. Health code violation. Leave before I call the police."Marcus left.By the end of the week, he was down to eighty dollars. Rent was due in three weeks. He'd eaten nothing but ramen and crackers for days, rationing every penny.He applied for government assistance. The waiting list was three months long.
The Freedom's Edge
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
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