I'm no saint. I drink too much, smoke too much, and most people at work think I'm full of shit. Maybe they're right. But the truth's out there rotting under everyone's nose, and I can't just ignore it. These marks already took my parents—I know how this story ends. Maybe.....I'm screwed too.
- Zora
Zora slouched in the worn leather chair by the window, the morning sunlight cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke like jagged ribbons. Her laptop glowed dimly against stacks of notebooks, scattered newspapers, and half-empty coffee mugs — a battlefield of her obsession and procrastination. She took a slow drag, the smoke curling lazily around her pale face, and blew it out in a long sigh, watching it twist and vanish into the cluttered apartment.
At twenty, she should have had more discipline, more recognition. Instead, she had a reputation: brilliant but reckless, insightful but lazy, driven but self-destructive. She didn't care much for the opinions of her coworkers, who whispered in corners and rolled their eyes at her habit of chasing stories no one else dared touch. She was known as a insane woman that always fucked up and chased dreams that will never happen.
Only one person ever believed in her — Flora. Patient, grounded, and fiercely loyal, Flora was the only one who understood Zora's obsession with uncovering the truth, even when it led them both into danger.
Her apartment smelled like old books, cigarette ash, and the faint bite of whiskey. Her uncle shuffled past in worn slippers, muttering about cleaning up and paying bills. Zora didn't bother responding. She didn't need reminders. She was already treated like garbage, like a human with no feelings having to follow others orders and judgment from others.
And yet, this morning, something felt… wrong. Her mark throbbed faintly on her wrist — a subtle black sigil etched along her skin, almost invisible except when it pulsed with warning it's design was similar to a tattoo. It wasn't new. Marks had always existed in the world, a quiet, pervasive threat from the unseen entity that watched over everyone. They were punishment for defiance, a creeping shadow that reminded people to obey. Most ignored the early flickers of their marks, choosing blind compliance. Zora had never been most people.
She rubbed the mark gently, feeling the subtle heat beneath her skin. Her instincts flared: the mark spread faster when she ignored it, when she disobeyed even in thought. And right now, it spread in ways she hadn't seen before — uneven, twitching almost like it had something enforcing it .
Her phone buzzed. Flora.
"Zora are you up?" the calm voice asked through the earpiece.
"Barely," Zora muttered, dragging a hand through her tangled red hair. "Coffee's gone cold, whiskey's almost empty, and my wrist is trying to kill me so yeah I'm up."
"You mean your mark?," Flora said sharply. "You've been pushing to far be careful.We need you alive for this, and—"
Zora interrupted with a wry smirk. "Relax, Flora. I'm careful enough. Maybe to careful for my own good."
There was a pause, followed by a low sigh. "Just… don't do anything stupid". "Please. I can't save you if you disappeari nto some alley like last time."
Zora's smirk softened, faintly. Flora's worry was a tether she clung to, one of the few reasons she still measured her reckless impulses. "I'll be fine. I always am just focus on yourself okay".
Zora then ends the call just as Flora attempts to respond back, sighing softly as she quietly looks at her window her expression softens as she observes the busy city that seemed so small from her apartment's view.
The city outside her window pulsed with muted neon and early morning fog, a gray maze of narrow streets and towering buildings. She lit another cigarette and leaned closer to the glass, watching the smoke from her lips mingle with the mist beyond.
Zora exhaled a long stream of smoke, letting it curl lazily in the dim morning light. She rubbed at the faint sting of her mark along her wrist, the heat thudding like a warning pulse. For a brief moment, she let herself imagine she could ignore it, pretend the creeping darkness wasn't hers to deal with.
Then came the shout.
"ZORA ,BREAKFAST IS COLD AND "THERE'S FLIES EVERYWHERE,YOUR ROOM LOOKS LIKE A DUMP",AND HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO CLEAN UP YOUR OWN SHIT?"
"YOU'RE FUCKING 20 YOU AREN'T A KID!"
She groaned, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. That old bastard's voice could probably crack stone. Her uncle, frail but unrelenting, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a scowl cutting across his weathered face.
Zora stubbed out her cigarette with a flick of her fingers and muttered under her breath, "Christ,he's still alive? Lucky bastard…ugh"
Dragging herself up, she ran a hand through her messy red hair. She could argue, sure. She could tell him to shove it and leave for good. But she didn't have the cash for her own place, and she sure as hell wasn't ready to gamble with her mark alone. Her parents… well, they hadn't been so lucky. One fully spread mark, and that was it. No second chances.
"Yeah yeah," she called back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Coming grumpy old fart"
Her uncle grunted in response, muttering something about "worthless kids" and "damn kids these days" as she made her slow, deliberate way to the kitchen. She stole a glance at her wrist where the mark simmered faintly under her sleeve. It was spreading again tiny tattoo marks snaking over her skin like they knew she was pushing limits.
She sighed, lighting another cigarette despite the smell of burnt toast hanging in the air. "Not today...I guess," she whispered, blowing out smoke and watching it mingle with the stale sunlight.She closes the door of her room,still messy with clothes and papers scattered on the floor as she goes to the kitchen