Tatto Lies

--- Eastbridge, 2:47 AM The night was still—until it wasn’t. Eastbridge was an average neighborhood. Modest homes lined the quiet streets, most with chipping paint, tired fences, and front yards that hadn’t seen a landscaper in years. It wasn’t the kind of place where wealth lived, but it wasn’t the worst either. A place where people knew their neighbors, kids rode bikes until sunset, and front doors stayed locked more out of habit than fear. It was averagely safe—just safe enough for people to sleep soundly. A quiet working-class neighborhood, slept soundly beneath the thick, velvet blanket of early morning. Porch lights flickered lazily. Wind rustled through dry leaves gathered at the curbs. Every home on the block was shut tight, cocooned in peace, the kind that comes only in the dead of night. It was the kind of neighborhood where gossip traveled fast and secrets were rarely kept—but tonight, even the streetlights seemed too stunned to blink. A loud bang tore through the silence, followed by the slam of a car door and the heavy, threatening rhythm of boots crunching the gravel-lined sidewalk. Lyra Blake’s eyes snapped open. Another crash—this time right at their front door. She jerked upright, breath caught in her throat. Her heartbeat was a war drum in her ears. The air felt colder than usual, even though her window was cracked open slightly. Male voices echoed through the darkness, low and angry. She didn’t need time to guess. It was him, always him (Zayden). Swinging her legs over the bed, she shot into the hallway. Just ahead, her mother—Evelyn—stood in her robe, hands shaking as she reached for the hallway light. “Lyra… what’s going on?” Evelyn’s voice was soft but unsteady, already tight with fear. Then the next voice from outside came, loud and unforgiving: “Open the damn door before we break it down!” The blood drained from Evelyn’s face. Lyra didn’t answer she only whispered for Evelyn to stay still, something about the air felt wrong. She just moved. She knew this routine too well. She'd lost count of the nights like this—when Zayden’s messes came knocking, literally. She unlocked the front door and opened it just enough for the night to spill in. It carried with it the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, beer, and sweat—mixed with something sharper: danger. Three men loomed on their tiny porch. They weren’t the kind you crossed. Muscles coiled beneath dark jackets, tattoos snaked up necks and down arms, and rage practically radiated from their bodies. The tallest, with a scar running from temple to jaw, stepped forward with calm menace. “Where’s Zayden?” he asked. Lyra’s mouth went dry. “He’s not here.” Scarface smirked. “Wrong answer.” Another man stepped forward, eyes dark as oil. “Your brother owes Marlow a lot of money. Again. Missed his deadline. Again. And instead of facing the heat, he disappears and leaves you two to handle it?” Lyra clenched her fists. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t spoken to him in days.” “You better start tracking him, sweetheart,” the third guy growled, “because if we can’t find him… we’ll settle for what he loves most.” Her heart thudded. “He loves no one but himself,” she muttered. Scarface tilted his head. “Three days. Then we come back.” And just like that, they turned and vanished into the dark—leaving the door open to fear, uncertainty, and the bitter stench of recklessness. Lyra locked the door but this time with a shaky hands, her face, pale with terror. she slumped against it. Evelyn had already collapsed on the couch, trembling. Tears sat heavy in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered. “He’s my son. My boy… but I don’t know who he is.” Lyra sat beside her, her voice tight. “Zayden doesn’t care, Mom. He just keeps dragging us through hell.” But Evelyn shook her head, lost in the ghost of a boy she once knew. “He wasn’t always like this. He used to be gentle. Creative. Just… misunderstood.” “And now he’s the neighborhood delinquent,” Lyra muttered. “And apparently Marlow’s favorite debt collector.” The hours crawled by. Neither of them moved sleep just seemed to vanish at that moment so they just sat there, flinching at every creak, every gust of wind, every imagined sound that could’ve been footsteps or sirens. Lyra stared at the floor as dawn began to stretch its pale fingers across the room. How much money did Zayden owe this time? What had he done to piss off a gang again? Gambling? Drugs? Another failed scam? She hated how much she was starting to expect this chaos—how used to it she had become. At 6:12 AM, the front door creaked. Soft footsteps moved across the floorboards like a whisper. Lyra sat upright. Evelyn’s back straightened, breath caught in her throat. Then—there he was. Zayden Blake. Same old hoodie. Same stupid sneakers. Same cocky, careless look. He stepped in quietly, like he could just sneak into the mess he made without a sound. But this time, he wasn’t fast enough. The living room light clicked on. He froze like a deer in headlights. Evelyn stood, her face pale, lips trembling. Lyra didn’t move—just stared. Zayden blinked. “Damn…” He tried to speak, but Evelyn's voice beat him to it—barely more than a whisper. “Zayden… what have you done now?” He opened his mouth to lie. To deflect. To charm his way out again. But then— Lyra’s phone buzzed. She glanced down. A message. Unknown number. > “Tell Zayden to stop hiding. Marlow doesn't give second warnings.” Her gaze snapped up to her brother. And for the first time in forever… Zayden looked scared.