Lucian Wolfe sat in the shadowy corner of the park, his figure almost blending into the dimness of the night. The bench he occupied was tucked away at the far right, a spot that offered both concealment and a clear view of the road. His sports cap was pulled low, obscuring most of his face, and his posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his stillness—a readiness to act at a moment's notice.
When the blue Mustang roared by, its engine tearing through the silence, Lucian didn't so much as flinch. The driver, focused on the road ahead, was oblivious to the presence of another soul in the seemingly deserted park. Lucian's eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his cap, followed the car until it disappeared from view. Only then did he rise from the bench, moving with a deliberate calmness that betrayed no urgency, though his destination was clear.
He began to walk, his strides long and unhurried, heading towards the dark gray building from which the Mustang had emerged. The park was eerily quiet, the only sounds those of his footsteps on the gravel path. As he approached the building, his eyes flicked from side to side, searching for any signs of life. There were none. The gate at the front of the building stood open, inviting him in without resistance.
Lucian entered, the quiet of the night amplifying the sound of the gate creaking as he passed through it. The building was old, its walls steeped in shadows, but Lucian moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. He headed straight for the stairs, bypassing the elevator. His destination was the third floor, a place shrouded in darkness and mystery, where someone had chosen to hide from the world.
As he climbed the stairs, his steps were soundless, each movement controlled and precise. But when he reached the third floor, he paused, his eyes catching sight of something that hadn't been there before. A figure was sprawled across the middle of the stairs, lying still as if all life had drained from it. The man's arm hung limply over the edge of the step, and blood seeped from a wound on his forehead, pooling on the floor below.
Lucian stopped, his gaze fixed on the man's prone form. He stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable, as if assessing the situation from a distance. When he was certain that the man posed no threat, Lucian approached, his movements slow and deliberate. He crouched beside the fallen figure, reaching out to touch the blood-soaked wound with the tips of his fingers. The blood was warm, fresh. Lucian's hand hovered over the man's chest for a moment, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. The man was alive, but only just.
Without a word, Lucian slipped his arms beneath the man, lifting him with an ease that belied the man's weight. He carried him in a firm, almost clinical manner, as if handling an inanimate object rather than a living person. His eyes remained focused on the stairs ahead as he ascended the final few steps to the third floor.
The door to the room at the end of the hall was wide open, but the interior was cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside. Lucian stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room briefly before he crossed to the bed at the far end. Without hesitation, he deposited the man onto the bed, the movement more abrupt than gentle, as if tossing a lifeless doll rather than placing a person.
The room was sparse, its furnishings minimal and uninviting. But Lucian wasn't interested in the surroundings. His focus was on the task at hand. He moved to the side table, pulling open the second drawer with practiced efficiency. Inside was a small first aid kit, which he retrieved before returning to the bed.
Lucian inspected the wound with a calm, detached demeanor, his fingers probing the gash to assess its severity. It was a superficial wound, nothing more than a flesh cut. He had seen far worse in his lifetime. With precise, methodical movements, he cleaned the blood from the man's forehead, disinfected the wound, and applied a bandage to cover it. His hands worked with the skill of someone who had done this countless times before, each action executed with a quiet efficiency.
Once the wound was tended to, Lucian stood back, his eyes briefly scanning the man's face, taking in the pale complexion and the faint lines of pain etched across his features. The man was still unconscious, his breathing steady but weak. Lucian's expression remained impassive as he turned away from the bed, his task completed.
As he made his way back down the stairs, Lucian's eyes caught sight of the blood smeared on the railing. He paused, pulling a white cloth from his pocket. With quick, firm strokes, he wiped the blood away, erasing any evidence of what had happened. The cloth, now stained with red, was folded and tucked back into his pocket.
Lucian exited the building as silently as he had entered, the door closing behind him with a soft click. Outside, the fog had thickened, blanketing the area in a dense mist that clung to the ground like a living entity. Lucian pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving deftly over the screen as he typed a message.
"Zeke got hurt. I cleaned his wound and put him in bed. Eric showed up as promised, but I don't have details yet."
He sent the message and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze briefly lingering on the building behind him. Without a second glance, Lucian turned and walked into the fog, his figure gradually fading into the mist until he was nothing more than a shadow, a ghost lost in the night.
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Eric reached his apartment at a breakneck speed, his heart pounding as fast as the wheels of his car. He couldn't recall how many red lights he had ignored or how many speeding tickets awaited him in tomorrow's mail. None of it mattered. The only thing that consumed him now was an overwhelming need to hide, to disappear, to escape the torment that was clawing at his mind.
His hands trembled as he pulled the key from the ignition, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He barely managed to drag himself out of the car, his legs unsteady beneath him. The 'Skylight' apartment complex was a gleaming tower of luxury, a place where the world outside was kept at bay. Tonight, it felt like a fortress, a place where he could lock the doors and keep his nightmares away.
The elevator doors stood open in the lobby, waiting to carry him up to the third floor where his apartment was. Eric hesitated, his finger hovering over the button. A sudden flash of memory struck him with the force of a lightning bolt.
He could see it so clearly—'the rough grip on his arm as he was dragged towards the elevator, the way his body had been thrown against the cold steel walls. The memory of that moment was seared into his mind: the forceful shove that had sent him sprawling, the cold metal against his back as he had tried to brace himself. The man chose 3rd floor on the lift and as soon as the doors closed he pounced on Eric like an animal crushing him under his weight and hugging him so fiercely that he almost chocked from the absence of oxygen. The elevator had become a cage, and the walls had closed in as the man's hands had gripped his chin, forcing him to—'
Eric snapped out of the memory with a jolt, his stomach twisting with nausea. He recoiled from the elevator as if it had burned him, his breath catching in his throat. Without a second thought, he turned and bolted for the stairs, his feet barely touching the ground as he fled upward.
When he reached his apartment, he fumbled with the key card, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He practically threw himself inside, slamming the door shut behind him as if to keep the demons at bay. The quiet of the apartment should have been comforting, but it felt suffocating. He could feel the walls closing in, the darkness of the past creeping up on him.
Eric tore off his drenched shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. His body, lean and muscled, was as pale as porcelain under the harsh lights of the room. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that covered most of one wall, and he was struck by the horror etched into his own features. His wide eyes, his trembling lips—he barely recognized the person staring back at him.
A sudden thought struck him, and he moved to the window, yanking the curtains closed with a sharp pull. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, to witness the depths of his torment. Alone in the dim light of the room, he returned to the mirror, turning his body so that he could see the back of his left shoulder and the nape of his neck. His bangs fell across his forehead as he twisted his body, but he paid them no mind.
There it was—the mark. The terrifying mark that had appeared on his skin. It started in the middle of his shoulder blade, curling up towards his nape like a dark, sinister brand. It was the size of a palm, but to Eric, it felt like it covered his entire body. A crimson half-moon sat at the center, surrounded by pitch-black clouds, with blood-red droplets falling from the edges. The base of the mark was a deep, dark blue, giving it the appearance of a bruise—a wound that would never heal.
Eric stared at it, his mind reeling with disgust and horror. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as the weight of the mark pressed down on him. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched the mark with his fingertips. As soon as his skin made contact, a blue light flared from the mark, illuminating it with an eerie glow. Eric yanked his hand back as if he had been shocked, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Panic seized him, and he bolted for the bathroom. He ripped off the rest of his clothes, his movements frantic, and stepped into the shower. The water cascaded over him, scalding hot, but he barely felt it. All he could think about was the mark, that vile thing etched into his skin. He grabbed a loofah and began scrubbing at it with desperate, furious strokes, his mind filled with a single thought: erase it, erase it, erase it.
For ten minutes, he scrubbed until his skin was raw, until his muscles ached with the effort. But the mark remained, its dark, twisted design mocking him, defying his attempts to rid himself of it. The harder he scrubbed, the more it seemed to cling to him, as if it were a part of his very being.
Finally, he collapsed to the floor of the shower, his strength utterly spent. The water pounded down on him, mixing with the tears that streamed down his face. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he sobbed, the weight of everything crashing down on him. Why was this happening? Why now, when he had fought so hard to leave it all behind? He had tried so desperately to build a normal life, to forget the horrors of three years ago, but it seemed fate had other plans. The nightmare had returned, and there was no escape.
As Eric huddled on the shower floor, the water pouring over him, the man lying in the darkened room of a deserted building began to stir. Zeke groaned, the pain from his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He felt like he was surfacing from a deep, endless void, clawing his way back to consciousness. The image of honey-colored eyes flickered in his mind, and with a startle, his eyes snapped open.
But there was nothing but darkness around him—darkness so thick and consuming it threatened to swallow him whole. He could feel it pressing down on him, pulling him back into its depths, and for a moment, he wondered if this was where he would remain, lost in the black abyss forever. But the thought of those eyes, of the man who had driven him to this point, kept him anchored to reality, even as the shadows closed in around him.