2025-12-24 23:31:30.
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 questions.”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“Where exactly were you tonight?” Chen asked.
“At Mario’s Pizza,” Marcus said. “Then the arcade. With my friends.”
Chen wrote something down. “Anyone leave early?”
“No.”
“Anyone see you leave?”
“No.”
Chen stopped writing. “Your phone died around eight-thirty.”
“Yes.”
“So no messages after that?”
Marcus shook his head.
Chen leaned back in his chair. “Marcus, your jacket tested positive for gun residue.”
Marcus looked up fast. “That’s not possible. I didn’t touch a gun.”
“You shoot often,” Chen said gently. “Residue can stay.”
Marcus opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. His head hurt.
Another detective walked in. Detective Walsh. He was taller. His voice was rough.
“We ran the prints,” Walsh said. “Your thumbprint is on the rifle.”
Marcus’s heart dropped.
“That’s my dad’s gun,” Marcus said. “I’ve touched it before. He taught me how to clean it.”
Walsh shrugged. “Doesn’t look good.”
Chen looked at Marcus. “Marcus, did you argue with your father tonight?”
“No.”
“We have text messages,” Walsh said, sliding a paper across the table. “You told him he was ruining your life. That you were tired of being controlled.”
Marcus stared at the paper.
The words looked like his.
But they weren’t.
“I didn’t write that,” Marcus whispered. “I swear.”
Walsh crossed his arms. “Your sister heard you fighting.”
Marcus froze.
“Sophie?” he asked. “You talked to Sophie?”
Chen’s eyes lowered.
“She said she heard you arguing,” Chen said slowly. “She said she heard your father tell you to put the gun down.”
Marcus shook his head hard. “That’s not true! She’s confused. She was scared!”
Walsh sighed. “Kids don’t lie about things like that.”
Marcus stood up so fast his chair fell over.
“I DID NOT KILL MY PARENTS!” he shouted.
Two officers grabbed him and forced him back down.
Chen raised a hand. “That’s enough.”
Marcus breathed hard. Tears burned his eyes.
“What about Victor Castellano?” Marcus cried. “He threatened my dad! He was scared! My dad gave me proof!”
“Where is the proof?” Walsh asked.
Marcus swallowed. “It was stolen.”
Walsh laughed. “Of course it was.”
Chen closed the folder.
“Marcus Reid,” he said softly, “you are being charged with two counts of murder.”
The words didn’t make sense.
Charged.
Murder.
Marcus felt like he was falling into a hole that had no bottom.
A week later, Marcus stood in court wearing clothes that weren’t his. They were too big. Too loose. He felt small inside them.
People filled the room. Reporters. Strangers. Faces he didn’t know.
They whispered.
They stared.
Cameras flashed.
The judge sat high above everyone else, looking down like a statue. Marcus’s lawyer sat beside him. The man didn’t look confident. He looked tired and lost.
Across the room sat the prosecutor. She looked calm. Ready.
The case moved fast.
Too fast.
They showed pictures of the house.
They showed the gun.
They showed the texts.
They showed his jacket.
Every piece of evidence felt like another brick dropped on his chest.
Then Sophie was brought in.
Marcus’s heart broke.
She looked so small.
Her hair was messy. Her eyes were empty. She didn’t look at him.
“Sophie,” the prosecutor said kindly, “can you tell us what you heard?”
Sophie’s hands shook.
“I heard yelling,” she whispered. “Marcus was mad. Daddy told him to stop.”
Marcus stood up. “No—”
“Sit down!” the judge shouted.
Marcus collapsed back into his chair, shaking.
“Did you hear the gunshots?” the prosecutor asked.
Sophie nodded, tears falling.
“Do you see the person who did it in this room?”
Sophie pointed.
At Marcus.
Something inside him broke.
Victor Castellano took the stand later.
He wore a dark suit. He looked sad. Respectful.
“I cared deeply for the Reid family,” Victor said. “Marcus was under so much pressure. These young athletes are pushed too far.”
People nodded.
Marcus wanted to scream.
The jury watched everything.
They listened.
They believed.
The trial ended in days.
The jury left.
Marcus waited.
His hands shook.
The jury came back.
The courtroom was quiet. Too quiet.
Marcus stood in front of the judge. His hands were shaking, but he tried to stand straight. He was only seventeen, but in that moment, he felt very small.
The judge looked down at him.
“Marcus Reid,” the judge said, “this court has listened to the evidence and the words of the jury.”
Marcus’s heart beat fast. His mouth felt dry.
“Because the crimes happened while you were a minor,” the judge continued, “the court cannot give you the highest punishment.”
Marcus looked up, hope flashing in his eyes for a short second.
But the judge’s face stayed cold.
“However,” the judge said, “the court believes you are responsible for the deaths of your parents.”
Marcus shook his head. “I didn’t do it,” he whispered.
The judge did not respond.
“For these reasons,” the judge said, “you are sentenced to juvenile-to-adult custody.”
Marcus didn’t understand.
The judge explained slowly, clearly.
“You will be sent to a juvenile correction center until you turn eighteen,” the judge said.
“After that, you will be transferred to Sterling State Prison.”Marcus’s legs felt weak.
“You will remain in custody,” the judge continued, “until you reach the age of thirty years old.”
The courtroom reacted with soft sounds, gasps, whispers.
Marcus’s mind went blank.
Thirty years old.
That meant thirteen years in prison.
His youth.
His dreams. His future.Gone.
“At the age of thirty,” the judge said, “you will be released.”
The judge paused, then added:
“This court believes that by then, justice will have been served.”
Marcus wanted to scream.
Justice?
The judge lifted the gavel.
“Marcus Reid,” he said, “this court finds you guilty. May God guide you.”
Bang.
The gavel hit the desk.
The sound echoed in Marcus’s chest.
The guards stepped forward and grabbed his arms.
As they led him away, Marcus looked around the courtroom.
He saw people nodding, like they were satisfied.
He saw reporters already smiling, ready to write their stories.
Then he saw Victor Castellano.
Victor stood calmly at the back.
Their eyes met.
Victor smiled.
Marcus understood everything in that moment.
He would lose his youth.
Victor would lose nothing.
As Marcus was taken away, he turned one last time, hoping to see Sophie.
She was being led out by a woman from social services. Her head was down. She didn’t look back.
Marcus’s chest ached.
He was innocent.
But he was going to prison.
And he would not be free until he was thirty years old.
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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