The city didn't sleep; it just dimmed the lights and whispered to itself.
Alice sat at her kitchen table, the envelope and burner phone lay out in front of her like evidence in a case she didn't want to solve. The cash-stained bag had gone to the precinct's evidence locker — neat, clean, procedural. But the real pieces stayed with her.
The photo was still damp from the rain.
Her father — smiling, alive — frozen in a moment that shouldn't exist.
She'd seen ghosts before. She just never expected one to smile back.
She poured herself a shot of whiskey and set it next to the photo.
Her hand hovered above it, fingers brushing the image like it might vanish if she touched it.
The rain outside blurred into white noise. Her mind drifted — not willingly, but the way gravity drags a body down.
(Flashback)
It was raining that night too.
A smaller apartment. Same city, same storm. She was fifteen. Marcus sat across from her at a battered table, cleaning a gun with the kind of patience that came from repetition.
"You shouldn't keep doing that around me," she'd said, voice sharp with teenage defiance.
He smiled faintly without looking up. "And you shouldn't pretend you're not watching."
Alice rolled her eyes. "Normal dads take their daughters to movies."
"Normal dads don't survive in this city." He snapped the chamber shut, then handed her the gun, empty. "Tell me what's wrong with it."
She hesitated, then examined it the way he'd taught her — eyes, not hands. "Slide's sticking. Safety feels worn."
"Good," he said. "Always check the small things. The small things kill you."
He poured two mugs of coffee — black for him, too sweet for her — and leaned back. The dim kitchen light caught the scars on his knuckles.
"You know what the problem is with cops?" he asked suddenly.
"They think they're the good guys?"
He laughed — soft, tired. "No. They think there are good guys."
He reached across the table, tapping a finger against her wrist. "Out there, kid, the line's not between law and crime. It's between people who do what needs to be done and people who freeze."
She frowned. "And which one are you?"
He looked out the window at the rain. "Both. That's the trick."
The silence after that stretched long enough for her to memorise it.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter. "You think I'll ever have to be like you?"
He smiled without warmth. "I hope not."
(Present)
Alice blinked, the memory dissolving into the hum of her refrigerator.
The whiskey sat untouched. She reached for the burner phone, pressed the power button.
No service. No contacts. Just one saved text thread.
UNKNOWN: You saw the mark. We know who you are.
UNKNOWN: Your father left more than blood behind.
UNKNOWN: We'll be in touch.
The timestamp read: 24 hours ago.
Before the docks. Before the photo.
She stared at the screen until it dimmed, then powered it off again.
The envelope lay open beside her. Inside, she'd missed something earlier — a second sheet of paper, folded twice.
It was blank except for a single phrase typed at the centre:
The street remembers, and so do we.
Alice exhaled slowly. The room felt smaller, the city louder.
Somewhere out there, the past was bleeding back into the present — deliberate, organised, patient.
And if the Martins were behind it…
Then Marcus Pierce wasn't done teaching her lessons.