The mark didn't fade when Aubrey closed his eyes. Even hours later, it burned behind his eyelids, a cracked sun etched into his vision, as if someone had branded his skull from the inside out. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard against his eyes until sparks burst across the darkness, but it was still there — pulsing, glowing, breathing in time with the Bloodfire in his veins.
He hated that rhythm. It wasn't just a throb. It was a summons. A reminder. A call he couldn't silence.
When he finally pushed himself off the mattress, the city outside his window looked the same as always — neon buzzing, rain dripping from broken gutters, headlights cutting through the mist. But something about it was off. Not brighter. Not darker. Just… tilted, like reality had been nudged a few degrees sideways and no one else noticed.
On the cracked concrete below, someone had sprayed a crude chalk symbol — a sun. Just a child's drawing, probably. But when Aubrey blinked, it twisted, split down the middle, and became the sun. The same cracked one. His mark.
His chest tightened.
Everywhere he looked, it was there. Posters peeling from the walls carried shadows of it. The shattered window of a shopfront reflected it back at him. Even the flickering neon signs — red, blue, green — seemed fractured into the pattern when the light bent.
He yanked his hood down lower and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, nails digging into his palms. He couldn't tell if the city was mocking him or warning him.
At the corner of Lark and Seventh, he froze. Voices cut through the static hum of traffic, too sharp to be street noise.
"…he's marked. Orders are clear. Bring him in alive."
"…and if he resists?"
"Then burn him like the others."
Aubrey's heart skipped.
The words drilled into him. They weren't the lazy slang of gangs. Too precise. Too military. Whoever they were, they weren't kids with knives — they were hunters.
Slowly, Aubrey pressed his back to the damp brick wall, letting the shadows swallow him. His chest rose and fell with shallow, quiet breaths as he listened harder.
One of the figures shifted under the streetlight. They wore long coats, faces hidden in the dark. But on their wrists — glimmering faintly under the light — were metal bands etched with the cracked sun.
The same mark.
The Bloodfire in Aubrey's arms pulsed violently, like it had recognized kin — or enemies. He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles popped, heat rolling under his skin. Not yet. He couldn't risk another public firestorm. Not until he knew who they were.
He eased one step back, ready to slip away.
Then his heel caught on a shard of broken glass.
Crunch.
Both figures whipped their heads toward him.
"There!"
Aubrey didn't wait.
He bolted down the alley, sneakers slamming the pavement, lungs pulling in damp city air. Behind him, boots thundered in rhythm, too steady, too trained. They weren't just chasing — they were herding.
He vaulted a dumpster, scrambling up a rusted fire escape. The metal groaned under his weight, but he moved faster, climbing three rungs at a time. The hunters were right behind, moving with unnerving precision. Too fast. Too sharp.
His breath came ragged, his pulse erratic.
The Bloodfire surged, clawing for release. Sparks crawled across the metal railing, leaving scorched handprints where he gripped.
He spun mid-step, thrust a palm out, and released a sudden burst of heat. The air shimmered, and a rusted sign bolted to the building's side tore loose, crashing down in a rain of sparks.
The hunters flinched, covering their faces as the light burst over them. For the first time, their rhythm broke.
Aubrey used the opening. He hauled himself through an open stairwell window, tumbled across the dusty floor, and vanished into the pitch-black hall beyond.
He pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving, trying to quiet the roar in his blood. The building smelled of mildew and old smoke, the kind of place squatters used until the roof caved in.
But he wasn't alone.
The silence was wrong. Too heavy. Too watched.
"You can't outrun us, Aubrey."
The voice was calm. Not shouted. Almost conversational.
His stomach dropped.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the stairwell window.
On the rooftop above it stood the hooded woman. The watcher. The same one who had stood in the rain and offered him that cruel choice — chase her, or save lives. The one who had smiled as the city burned.
Her cloak stirred in the wind, though the night was still. Her eyes glowed faintly, not with flame, but with an eerie, steady light.
"You're marked now," she said. "And the mark doesn't fade."
Aubrey's fists ignited. The Bloodfire poured down his arms, lighting the walls with crimson sparks. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Then tell me what it means."
She tilted her head, as if studying a puzzle. The corners of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a threat.
And then, without another word, she turned. One step, two steps, and the shadows swallowed her whole.
Aubrey's anger detonated. He slammed his fist into the wall. Cracks spiderwebbed across the plaster, dust raining down, sparks leaping from his knuckles.
His name. His mark. His fire. Everyone else seemed to know what it meant. Everyone except him.
And now the city — his city — wasn't just dangerous. It was hunting him.