Arc 2 — "The Syndicate's Veins"
Act 1 — The Net Tightens
Rain muted the city outside, puddles stretching like dark mirrors under the streetlights. The door to my apartment greeted me with an unfamiliar emptiness too quiet, too expectant. My fingers brushed the wood, and the chalk mark practically seared itself into my retina: two jagged lines, intersecting like the bones of a skeleton, and a slash through the center.
Click… drip… hum…
Marked. Someone had been here while I was gone. Not for theft, not for me to notice, but for me to know.
I muttered under my breath, sarcasm a thin veneer over creeping unease. "Great. My landlord must be proud. Featured in Creeps Monthly, issue: Me."
A shadow slid along the hall, hesitant, deliberate. I spun, fists half-raised, expecting… anything.
"Relax, hotshot," said the detective, his voice low, edged with that same weary sharpness. He leaned against the wall, coat collar turned up like armor, eyes scanning as if the hall were a chessboard.
"You following me now?" I asked, thumb flicking toward the chalk scar. "Sorry, I already have a stalker. Door graffiti club is full."
He didn't flinch. Of course, he didn't. "You've been noticed."
"Noticed?" I scoffed, letting the humor carry me a second longer than it should have. "Do I get a welcome basket too?"
He stepped closer. The hall seemed to shrink with his presence. "When they mark a door, it means one thing. They're watching. Waiting. Testing."
I swallowed, letting the words sink in. Testing. My stomach churned. "Testing… my patience? My intelligence? My ability to fold laundry quietly?"
He glanced at the mark, then past me, eyes sharp as shards. "If you ignore it, they escalate. If you panic, they escalate faster. Leave tonight. Don't sleep here."
I raised an eyebrow. "Sure, detective. I'll check into the Ritz for existential threats. Use my frequent-fugitive points."
No smirk. No follow-up. Just a weight in the air, something between warning and pity, then he vanished down the stairwell.
I leaned against the door, chest tight. Inside, my apartment was untouched, unnervingly normal, staged-normal. Piles of papers, the couch, my old coffee mug all exactly as I'd left them. The silence pressed in, whispering. Someone had been here, and they wanted me to feel it.
The chalk mark glowed in the dim light like a heartbeat. You're on the list.
And for the first time, I realized it wasn't a threat. It was an invitation.
Splash… drip… click…