The sounds of heaving and panting could be heard as he made his way through the forest.
He grew tense as the men made their way through the forest, and he clutched his side tightly. The trees blurred into shadow, the smell of rain and iron thick in the air. He found a cave hidden beneath the roots of a cliff and stumbled inside, leaving behind the chaos he'd escaped.
Voices shouted above him. He pressed a bloody hand to his side and sank against the damp wall. The cave was deeper than it looked, empty except for the echo of his breathing. He tore a strip from his shirt and tied it tight around his ribs. The pain dulled to a slow burn. Exhaustion rolled over him, dragging him down into the dark.
He remembered.
A marketplace, bright under the sun. Children in shackles, eyes wide and vacant. One of them—thin, long-haired, ragged—walked without crying. His mother stumbled beside him, her whimpers fading under the crack of a whip. The boy didn't look up even when struck; he only walked, silent and stubborn.
They were sold that day. The highest bidder was an old man whose grey hairs outnumbered his black ones. The boy was taken to a house where the windows were barred and the children were numbered instead of named. Every day became a fight for scraps. The weak vanished first. Hunger taught them what survival meant.
In time, three remained—two boys and a girl. They were cleaned, dressed, and brought before the old man. He called himself Father Martin. From that day, they were the Martin children. They were trained to be ruthless, brutal, and loyal to the family's shadow network. Each day was a dance with death until one of them—Marcus—realised he wanted nothing more to do with that life.
He remembered the beatings, the tests, the silence. Then nothing but the dark of the cave.
He woke hours later to the sound of rain outside the cave mouth. His side burned but the bleeding had slowed. He started walking—slow, deliberate—until the forest broke into the edge of a small village.
A well stood at its centre. He thought to wash his wound, but before he could pull up a bucket, his legs gave out. The world went black.
When he opened his eyes again, he was on a bed in a small, dim room. His side was bandaged with clean cloth. A young Black woman stood beside him, shock in her eyes.
"You're awake," she said.
"Where am I?"
"My house. You were bleeding out by the well. I couldn't just leave you there."
He tried to sit, but pain stopped him. She pressed a hand to his chest. "Don't move. You'll tear the stitches."
A child's voice called from another room. "Mommy!" A little girl ran in, clutching a doll.
"It's all right, Alice," the woman said gently. "Go back to your room."
Alice. The name stuck.
Days passed. He learned the woman's name was Antonia, and her daughter was six. She'd found him, half-dead, and decided not to ask questions. He helped around the house as he healed. He never gave his real name. To them, he became Marcus Pierce.
When the thug who harassed Antonia for protection money tried to lay his hands on her, Marcus stopped him. Broke his hand without hesitation. The act bound their lives together more than any vow.
In time, he married Antonia—not for love, but to protect her and her daughter, and to hide behind a new name. Love came later, quiet and fragile. For the first time, Marcus felt almost human.
Years passed like that—peaceful, deliberate. Then everything changed.
The Martin Family still moved in the city's shadows, a web of money and blood. Marcus knew it was only a matter of time before they discovered his new life. When they finally did, it was too late for him to run again.
Alice was twenty when it happened. The night that took Marcus would become the reason she joined the force, though no one ever connected the dots. The official story said robbery gone wrong. She knew better.
Marcus's lessons stayed with her: Never fight fair. Never show fear. Trust only the results.
Five years later, at twenty-five, Alice Pierce returned from the academy. Chicago's youngest detective in the Major Crimes Division—efficient, cold, unshakable. The department called her when things got dirty, and she never failed to deliver.
Her world was grey, but she understood grey better than anyone.
The precinct always smelled of burnt coffee, sweat, and secrets.
Detective Alice Pierce pushed through the double doors just after dawn, her coat dripping with city rain. The bullpen was half-awake—phones ringing, keyboards clattering, detectives muttering curses into paperwork. She slid into her desk and dropped a file thick enough to bruise wood.
Carter Ortega, her partner, looked up from a cup of sludge-black coffee. "You're early," he said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Case keeping you up or conscience?"
She gave him a flat look. "You really wanna start with that?"
He smirked and went back to his notes. "Victim's name is Henry Vargas. Shot twice, no witnesses. The locals say it's gang work, but I don't buy it."
Alice flipped open the folder. The crime-scene photos were brutal—tight grouping, precision shooting. "This isn't street work," she said. "Too clean."
"You think pro?"
"I think someone wants it to look like pro."
They spent the morning retracing steps—warehouse district, rain-slick streets, the echo of sirens slicing through fog. Every witness was suddenly blind. Every camera is conveniently down. Chicago had a way of swallowing the truth.
By afternoon, they were in the alley where Vargas had died. The asphalt still smelled of copper and oil. A stray cat darted from a trash bin. Alice crouched, tracing a gloved finger over a faint mark beside the bloodstain—a small carved circle with three short lines inside it.
Her breath hitched. She'd seen that symbol once before.
She didn't tell Ortega. Not yet.
That night, thunder rolled across the city as she sat alone in her apartment. The glow from the desk lamp cut a pale circle through the smoke from her cigarette. She spread the photos across the table, aligning them by instinct, not logic. The pattern was there—a chain of deaths that didn't connect on paper but hummed with the same quiet design.
She could feel it in her gut. Something buried. Something old.
Her father's voice slipped through memory like smoke: Never chase a trail unless you're ready for what's waiting at the end.
She took another drag, exhaled toward the ceiling, and whispered, "Too late for that."
Two days later, the case blew open.
A tip led her and Ortega to a derelict warehouse near the river. Inside: rusted machinery, empty crates, and the smell of ammonia. They split up, flashlights slicing through the dark.
"Nothing here," Ortega called.
Alice moved deeper, drawn by a soft metallic click. Her light caught movement—two silhouettes by the back door, guns up. She dropped behind a crate as bullets sparked off the wall. Her heart hammered, but her hands stayed steady. She returned fire. One man dropped; the other bolted through the rain.
"Carter!" she shouted.
Silence.
She found him a minute later, sprawled near the exit, blood spreading beneath his shoulder. Still breathing. "Stay with me," she muttered, pressing her hand over the wound.
He grimaced. "They… they knew we were coming."
"Don't talk."
His eyes flicked toward the wall. She followed his gaze—there, scratched into metal, the same circle and three slashes. Fresh. Waiting for her to find it.
Hours later, the warehouse was sealed and crawling with uniforms. Ortega was alive, stable. The attackers were nameless—burner IDs, fake plates, ghosts.
Alice stood outside under the awning as rain came down in silver sheets. The city blurred into shadow and neon. Her mind kept replaying the symbol, the mark she'd hoped never to see again.
She went home, poured a drink, and let the silence close around her.
The call came just after midnight.
"Detective Pierce."
A man's voice—smooth, calm, wrong. "You're asking questions that don't belong to you."
Her stomach turned cold. "Who is this?"
"Someone is trying to keep you alive."
"You threatening me?"
A soft chuckle. "If I were, you wouldn't be answering the phone."
Click.
She stared at the black screen, heartbeat loud in the quiet. Outside, a car idled across the street, lights off. Watching. Waiting. Then it rolled away into the wet dark.
Alice closed the curtain and said to the empty room, "Guess I'm getting close."
The rain started again, steady and unending, drumming against the glass like the city's heartbeat.