Mari: A dark Game Series

Four

The itch had found its voice, and it was getting louder every single day.

I tried to ignore it. I really did. I buried myself in paperwork, flirted with O’Malley in the break room like a normal person, and told myself I wasn’t replaying the memory of that poor bastard in Dalston every time I closed my eyes. But the itch didn’t care about my good intentions. It only cared about feeding.

It found its meal on a rainy Thursday night.

His name was Leon. A small-time dealer who had been running his mouth about the Dalston murder in the wrong circles. My snitch tipped me off. Leon was getting too close to Marks. Too close to the truth I was trying to keep buried.

I followed him from a grim estate in Hackney to a dark alley behind an abandoned shop. No real plan. Just the itch pulling me forward like a leash.

He was pissing against a wall when I stepped out of the shadows, rain soaking my hood.

“Leon,” I said quietly.

He zipped up fast and spun around. “Who the f**k are you, yeah?!! You lost or something?!"

I smiled, knife already in my hand. “Not lost. Just tired of you talking.”

His eyes widened when he saw the blade. “Wait, wait, hold on, I don’t even know you, bruv. Whatever this is, we can sort it out. I got money. I got ......”

Before he could say any more nonsense and reach for his phone, I moved fast. The first stab went into his stomach. He gasped, doubling over. The second followed right after. Then the third, up into his throat when he tried to scream and he coughed and gasped holding his stomach and throat.

“f**k!! No!! please!!!” he gurgled, blood bubbling from his mouth.

I crouched beside him in the rain, watching. His hands clutched at my sleeve, weak and desperate. His eyes were wide with terror. I watched every second of it, reveling the thrashing, the slowing, the final stillness. The quiet that came after was perfect. Pure and beautiful.

I stayed there for a long time, breathing it in. When I finally stood up, my hands were shaking, but not from fear. From pure satisfaction and a huge smile played on my face, the type you'd find on those creepy people in Smile. Not saying that I'm creepy.

I cleaned out the scene like I’d been doing it my whole life. Wiped prints. Took his phone. Left nothing that could come back to me. By the time I got home, the rain had washed most of the blood off my clothes. I stood in the shower for almost an hour, replaying every moment while the hot water ran red at my feet.

The memory was better than any high I’d ever known.

The next morning I walked into the station like nothing had happened. O’Malley was already at his desk. When he saw me, that warm Irish lilt cut through the noise.

“Morning, Mari. You look… different today. Good different. You get some sleep finally?”

I leaned against his desk, close enough to smell his aftershave. “Something like that, Sarge. You?”

He chuckled, eyes lingering on me. “Ah sure, I was up half the night thinking about this bloody Dalston case. You still convinced it’s not suicide?”

“Positive,” I said, holding his gaze a little too long. “The knife grip was too clean. No hesitation marks. Someone else was in that flat with him.”

He rubbed his jaw, smiling softly. “You’ve got good instincts, I’ll give you that. But the Super wants this wrapped quickly. What’s your next move, Detective?”

“I want to bring in Marks. He’s connected to the victim’s debts. I think he’s worth talking to.”

O’Malley raised an eyebrow, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve been busy. Alright. We’ll do it together. But Mari…” He lowered his voice, leaning in. “You seem a bit too excited about this one. Everything okay? You can talk to me, you know. Off the record.”

Before I could answer, we both drifted toward the break room. It was empty except for us. O’Malley poured two coffees and handed me one, his fingers brushing mine on purpose.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “you keep looking at me like that and people are going to start talking.”

I took a sip, leaning against the counter. “Let them talk. What are they going to say? That I fancy the Irish charmer with the nice voice?”

He laughed softly, stepping a little closer. “Ah sure, and what if I told you I don’t mind the attention from a certain curly-haired detective who’s far too clever for her own good?”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Flirting on duty, Sarge? That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“Rules are flexible,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “Especially when the detective in question keeps giving me that look. The one that says she’s thinking about more than just case files.”

I stepped closer, voice dropping. “Maybe I am. Maybe after we close this mess, you can show me just how flexible those rules can be.”

He swallowed, his Irish accent thickening. “Jesus, Mari… you’re going to get me in trouble.”

“Good trouble?” I asked, biting my lip.

“The best kind,” he murmured.

Before anything more could happen, my colleague Jamal barged in, loud as always.

“Oi, you two! Get a room or something. Mari, you’ve been staring at that board like it owes you money. You alright in there, yeah? Or are you finally losing the plot over this stabbing?”

I rolled my eyes. “f**k off, Jamal. Some of us actually work.”

He laughed, grabbing a biscuit. “Nah, you’re properly obsessed. The rest of us think it’s suicide. You’re the only one acting like it’s Jack the Ripper. Careful, yeah? People are starting to say you’re going full detective novel on us.”

O’Malley shot him a warning look. “Leave her alone, mate. She’s doing good work.”

Jamal shrugged and wandered off, still chuckling. “Whatever you say, Sarge. But I’m telling you, Mari’s gone mad.”

Later that afternoon, we brought Marks in. He walked into the interview room like he owned it, calm and confident. When his eyes met mine, something dark and electric passed between us.

“Detective Peters,” he said, voice low and rough. “Nice to finally meet you properly.”

O’Malley sat beside me, arms folded. “Marks. You know why you’re here?”

Marks leaned back, completely relaxed. “Enlighten me, Sergeant.”

I jumped in. “The victim in Dalston owed you money. We have records. Phone calls the night he died. You want to tell us where you were?”

Marks looked straight at me, ignoring O’Malley. “I was busy. Business. You know how it is, Detective. Sometimes people need reminding about their debts.”

O’Malley cut in. “And did you remind this particular man a bit too hard?”

Marks smiled slowly. “I don’t kill people, Sergeant. I’m a businessman. But I understand why you might think that. Some people… they bring it on themselves.”

His eyes flicked back to me. “Wouldn’t you agree, Detective Peters?”

I felt the itch flare. “I think some people deserve what they get.”

O’Malley shot me a quick, surprised look but didn’t say anything.

The interview went on for nearly an hour. Marks danced around every question with ease. When it was over and we let him go (not enough to hold him), O’Malley pulled me aside in the corridor.

“What the hell was that in there?” he asked, voice low. “You were almost encouraging him.”

I shrugged. “Just playing along. Sometimes you get more if they think you understand them.”

He searched my face. “Mari… be careful. There’s something about this case that’s getting under your skin. I don’t like it.”

I stepped closer to him. “And what if I like it, Sarge?”

For a moment the air between us crackled. He looked like he wanted to kiss me right there in the hallway. Instead he sighed.

“Go home. Get some rest. That’s an order, love.”

That night I met Marks again at the same quiet pub in Hackney.

He was already waiting when I arrived. Two drinks on the table.

“You came,” he said as I sat down.

“Curious,” I replied. “You said you wanted to talk.”

He slid a drink toward me. “You killed Leon last night.”

It wasn’t a question. I took a sip of whiskey and met his eyes.

"What do you mean?" I said pretending not to understand what he was saying.

"Oh God. Peters don't bullshit me." He looked deeper into my eyes and I felt like he was staring at my soul and my heart began to thrash violently.

“Yeah. I did.” I finally admitted and smiled.

Marks smiled, slow and genuine. “I saw the body. You did a very clean work. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

I didn’t deny it. “More than I expected.” He chuckled softly and I smiled too.

He leaned in. “Most people lie about that part. They pretend they feel guilty. But you… you get it. The quiet afterwards. The power. The way the world finally shuts the f**k up.”

We talked for hours. Real talk. Not the bullshit I fed O’Malley. We talked about control. About how we were doing good to the world, about how good it felt when the thrashing stopped, about how the first kill changes everything.

“You ever regret it?” I asked him at one point.

Marks shook his head. “Never. The only thing I regret is waiting so long to start.”

"Well My Stupid childhood cat brought this out in me and I'll forever thank that sucker." She smiled.

"Oh God you're a monster. How could you kill that angel?" He asked serious faces but I ignored him.

When we finally left the pub, he walked me to my car. Before I got in, he caught my wrist.

“You’re special, Mari. Don’t let them dull that. If you ever want to stop pretending… you know where to find me.”

His touch lingered. I thought about inviting him back. About letting him f**k me while I told him exactly how Leon had died.

Instead I just smiled and turned to open the car door.

That was when he moved.

In one fluid motion he pulled a knife from his jacket and pressed it against my cheek. The blade was cold. Sharp. A thin line of pain bloomed as he cut me — not deep, but enough to sting and draw blood.

I froze, heart hammering.

Marks leaned in close, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t play games with me, Detective. I see you. I know what you are. Next time I won’t be so gentle.”

He stepped back, knife disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. Then he smiled — dark, satisfied — and walked away into the rain.

I touched my cheek. Warm blood mixed with rainwater. The cut burned, but the pain only made the itch sing louder.

I drove home with a smile on my face.

When I got there, O’Malley had left a voicemail.

“Mari… call me when you get this. I’m worried about you, love. Whatever’s going on, we can talk. I mean it.”

I listened to it twice, then lay in bed thinking about both of them. O’Malley’s warmth. Marks’ darkness and the sharp kiss of his blade.