Marcus stared at the ceiling all night. The camera sat in his sock drawer like a loaded gun. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Chloe's broken face. Heard her voice like gravel. Felt her fingers digging into his arm.
Don't trust the cops. Don't trust anyone.
The alarm screamed at six AM. Marcus rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. His reflection looked like shit. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair sticking up in weird directions. He looked guilty. Like someone carrying a terrible secret.
Downstairs, his family was already gathered around the kitchen table. His mother sat in her wheelchair, wearing the pink robe that made her look smaller somehow. She smiled when she saw him, the kind of bright, fragile smile that made his chest ache.
"Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, Mom. Great."
Marlon looked up from his cereal bowl. Even at six in the morning, his hair looked perfect. "You look like death, dude. Everything okay?"
"Just tired."
His father glanced over the newspaper. Dark circles under his own eyes told the story of another sleepless night. "Your mother had a rough evening. Kept asking about cookies she thought she'd made."
The burnt cookies. Marcus remembered Marlon mentioning them yesterday. It felt like a lifetime ago.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I should have come down when you called."
She reached out and patted his hand. Her fingers felt cold and thin. "It's okay, honey. You're a good boy. You work so hard at school."
If only she knew.
School passed in a blur. Marcus sat through chemistry, English, and history without hearing a word. Teachers talked about molecules and Shakespeare and the Civil War, but all he could think about was the camera hidden in his room. The pictures Chloe had died for.
At lunch, he found himself staring at her empty chair again. Brad Kowalski walked by with his usual crew, but for once he didn't stop to hassle Marcus. Even bullies had better things to do when their target looked half-dead.
After school, Marcus took a different route home. Instead of Oak Avenue, he walked through downtown Millbrook. Main Street stretched for six blocks, lined with shops that had seen better days. Miller's Hardware. Rosie's Diner. The old movie theater with its cracked marquee.
Half of these businesses belonged to Vincent Torrino now. Marcus had never paid attention before, but now he noticed the pattern. The newer shops had the same clean look. The same black and gold signs. Even their cash registers looked identical.
A bell chimed as someone walked out of Torrino's Electronics. Marcus recognized the face immediately. Nico Torrino, Julio's cousin. He was Marcus's age, maybe a year older. Tall and skinny with messy brown hair and a crooked smile. He was carrying a cardboard box filled with circuit boards and wires.
Marcus almost kept walking. Almost. But something made him stop.
"Hey, Nico."
The older boy looked up, surprised. "Oh, hey. Marcus, right? From school?"
"Yeah."
Nico shifted the box to one arm. "What's up, man? You look like someone ran over your dog."
"Just tired." Marcus nodded at the box. "Working on something?"
"Always." Nico's face lit up. "Building a police scanner with some modifications. Trying to boost the range, maybe pick up some encrypted channels."
"That's... that's really cool."
"Want to see? I've got a workshop in my garage. Well, my mom's garage, but she doesn't use it anyway."
Marcus should have said no. Should have walked away and pretended this conversation never happened. Instead, he heard himself saying, "Sure."
The Torrino house sat on Elm Street, three blocks from downtown. It was bigger than Marcus's place, with a manicured lawn and expensive cars in the driveway. A black SUV that looked familiar. Marcus's stomach clenched as he recognized it from the bridge.
Nico led him around back to a converted garage. Inside, workbenches lined the walls. Electronic components covered every surface. Computers, radios, speakers, devices Marcus couldn't even identify. The air smelled like solder and ozone.
"This is incredible," Marcus said, and meant it.
"Thanks. Been working on it since I was twelve." Nico set down his box and pulled out a half-assembled radio. "My dad thinks it's a waste of time. Says I should focus on the family business."
"What's the family business?"
Nico's expression darkened. "Import-export. Really boring stuff. My uncle Vincent handles most of it now."
Marcus tried to keep his voice casual. "Must be doing well. I noticed he owns a lot of shops downtown."
"Yeah, well. Uncle Vincent's good at making money." Nico connected two wires and the radio crackled to life. A dispatcher's voice filled the garage, reporting a fender-bender on Route 15.
"How does he do it? Make money, I mean."
Nico glanced at him sharply. "Why do you want to know?"
Marcus's heart hammered. He'd pushed too hard, too fast. "Just curious. My dad's always complaining about money. Wondering how some people make it look so easy."
"Luck, I guess. Right place, right time." But Nico didn't sound convinced. He turned back to his radio, adjusting dials and testing frequencies.
They worked in silence for a while. Nico showed Marcus how to solder connections and read circuit diagrams. It was peaceful, focusing on something concrete and logical. For an hour, Marcus almost forgot about the camera in his sock drawer.
Then voices echoed from the house. Angry voices.
Nico froze. "Shit. They're home early."
"Who?"
"Julio and his crew. They usually don't show up until after dinner." Nico moved to the window and peered through a gap in the curtains. "You should probably go, man. They're not really... friendly with strangers."
Marcus joined him at the window. Through the glass, he could see three young men walking toward the back door. Julio Torrino led the pack, still wearing that perfectly styled hair and expensive jacket. The other two Marcus didn't recognize, but they had the same look. Dangerous. Predatory.
"Is there another way out?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah, through the back gate. But you'll have to wait until they go inside."
As if summoned by his words, the back door slammed open. Julio stepped onto the patio, his eyes scanning the yard. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the garage windows.
"Nico!" he called. "Get your ass in here. We need to talk."
"Fuck," Nico whispered. He looked at Marcus apologetically. "I'm sorry, man. You really need to leave."
Marcus nodded. His throat felt dry. "Thanks for showing me the workshop. It's really cool."
"Yeah, no problem. Maybe we can hang out again sometime. When things are less..." He gestured vaguely toward the house.
"Nico!" Julio's voice cracked like a whip.
"Coming!" Nico called back. He grabbed Marcus's shoulder. "Back gate, okay? Count to thirty after I go inside, then run."
Marcus watched from the window as Nico walked across the yard. The three older boys surrounded him immediately. Julio said something too quiet to hear. Nico shook his head. Julio grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, speaking directly into his ear. Even from a distance, Marcus could see Nico's face go pale.
They disappeared into the house. Marcus counted to thirty, then slipped out the back gate and ran.
He made it three blocks before stopping to catch his breath. His hands were shaking. Not from the running, but from the realization of what he'd just witnessed. Nico wasn't like his cousin. He was just a kid who liked electronics, trapped in a family he didn't choose.
Back home, Marcus climbed to his room and pulled the camera from his sock drawer. Such a small thing to hold so much power. He turned it on and scrolled through the photos.
The first few were blurry, taken in poor light. But they showed enough. Julio and two other men standing around a table covered in white bricks. Cocaine, probably. More photos showed money changing hands. Faces Marcus recognized from around town. Shop owners. A police officer. Even Principal Palmer from school.
The last photo made his blood freeze. Chloe, tied to a chair in what looked like a basement. Her face already showing the bruises he'd seen at the bridge. Behind her, barely visible in the shadows, stood a man in an expensive suit. Older, with silver hair and cold eyes.
Vincent Torrino.
Marcus stared at the photo until his eyes burned. This was proof. Evidence that could bring down the whole operation. But Chloe was right. Half the cops were dirty. The other half were too scared to act. Who could he trust with something this dangerous?
He thought about Nico, surrounded by his cousin's thugs. About his mother's fragile smile over breakfast. About Chloe's broken voice whispering warnings in the dark.
Don't trust anyone.
Marcus turned off the camera and put it back in the drawer. But this time, he didn't bury it under his socks. He left it on top, where he could see it. A reminder of what needed to be done.
If the system wouldn't deliver justice, maybe it was time to find another way.
He pulled out his laptop and opened a new browser window. Then he typed in the first search: "How to fight crime when the police are corrupt."
The results were mostly academic articles and news stories. Nothing useful. He tried again: "Vigilante tactics real world."
Better. He found forums discussing neighborhood watch programs, citizen journalism, even a few threads about people taking the law into their own hands. Most of it was theoretical, but some posts had links to more detailed information.
Marcus clicked deeper, following links to articles about surveillance techniques, self-defense, urban camouflage. Each page led to ten more. Before he knew it, three hours had passed.
"Marcus?" His mother's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Dinner's ready, sweetheart."
"Coming, Mom."
But he bookmarked every page first. Tomorrow, he'd dig deeper. Learn more. Figure out how an ordinary high school student could take on an organization powerful enough to buy cops and intimidate witnesses.
It seemed impossible. But Chloe had believed in him enough to give him the camera. She'd trusted him with her evidence, her last hope for justice.
He wouldn't let her down.
Downstairs, his family was gathered around the dinner table. Takeout Chinese food from Wong's Kitchen, because his mother had been too tired to cook. She sat in her wheelchair, picking at lo mein noodles and trying to follow the conversation.
"How was school today, boys?" his father asked, the same question he asked every night.
"Great," Marlon said. "Coach thinks I might make varsity next year if I keep working on my free throws."
"That's wonderful, honey." Their mother smiled, but Marcus could see the effort it took. The good days were getting shorter.
"What about you, Marcus? Anything interesting happen?"
Marcus thought about Nico's workshop. About the photos on the camera. About Chloe's desperate warning at the bridge.
"No," he said. "Just a normal day."
The lie came easily. Too easily. But some secrets were too dangerous to share, even with family.
After dinner, Marcus helped clean up while Marlon disappeared upstairs to do homework. Their father sat with their mother in the living room, both of them pretending to watch a sitcom while she dozed in her chair.
Marcus finished loading the dishwasher and climbed back to his room. The camera waited where he'd left it, its plastic case reflecting the overhead light.
Tomorrow, he'd learn more. Research everything he could about fighting corruption, about surveillance, about becoming someone the criminals would fear.
Tonight, he'd try to sleep. And dream of a world where his best friend was still alive, and justice meant something more than whoever had the most money and guns.
It was a nice dream. But when morning came, Marcus would wake up in the real world. And in the real world, sometimes good people had to do bad things to make the wrongs right.
The camera sat silent in the dark, keeping its secrets. But not for much longer.