Marked By The Syndicate

{Hazel's P.O.V} Our last customer just walked out with the chocolate cake I baked for her stepson’s birthday. "You tell Miles I haven't forgotten about that lawnmower engine," Mrs. Gable called out from behind the counter, wiping down the display glass with a damp rag. "My Toby took his bike out today, too. Rides like it’s brand new. Your father spent three hours on his knees in the grease last Sunday just so a ten-year-old wouldn't spend his weekend stuck inside. He’s a good man, Hazel. A real good man." "I'll tell him, Mrs. Gable," I said, offering a soft smile as I pushed open the glass door. "He'll probably be at your fence by tomorrow morning with his toolbox anyway." "He better not! He needs to rest!" she hollered back over the hum of the ovens. A light laugh escaped me as I stepped onto the cobblestone sidewalk, pulling my jacket tighter around my shoulders against the night air. It was a Friday night. No dark-web coding contracts, no late shifts at the cyber café. Weekends belonged strictly to home. They meant old movie marathons, terrible home-cooked dinners, and listening to Dad rant about the carburetor on his 1980s blue Volkswagen Beetle parked in the garage. The streets of our quiet suburban neighborhood were dark, broken only by tall halogen streetlights casting amber pools of light every fifty feet. Normally, a twenty-two-year-old girl walking through dark alleys at nine o'clock on a Friday would be scanning every shadow, fingers locked around a canister of pepper spray. I wasn't scanning out of fear, though. It was pure habit. For the past three months, I hadn't been walking alone. It started in late summer—a subtle, cold prickle at the base of my neck. At first, I blamed paranoia. Then came the glimpses: a towering figure shrouded in a black hoodie and a dark tactical mask. He never approached. He never touched me or tried to rob me when I cut through the pitch-black alleyways behind the cyber café. He just existed—a silent, suffocating shadow attached to my steps. Over time, the terror had worn down into a gritty, defiant numbness. You can only stay terrified of a ghost for so long before his presence becomes as routine as the weather. In a twisted way, he had become a dark constant. I cut through the narrow gap between the old hardware store and the laundry facility, glance darting to the dark reflection of a rain puddle. Nothing. I slowed my pace, head turning to search the shadows behind a rusted dumpster. The alley was completely empty. No towering silhouette blocking the moonlight. A tight, uneasy knot pulled in my gut. Where the hell is he? The thought made me grimace. I was actually looking for my stalker. I shook my head, cursing under my breath, and quickened my steps as my house came into view at the end of the oak-lined street. It was a modest, two-story house with peeling white paint and an old porch Dad kept promising to fix. The amber glow of the porch light was on, casting a warm halo over the front steps. I stepped onto the gravel driveway, boots crunching softly as I made my way toward the stairs. Before I could process the sudden drop in temperature, a heavy, gloved hand shot out from the dark beside the porch pillar. Fingers clamped around my wrist like iron, snapping my momentum back so hard my teeth clattered together. "Wait..." a low, gravelly voice rasped directly behind my ear. "Don't you touch me," I hissed. My thumb drove straight into the release button on my pocket knife. Without missing a beat, I whipped my hand around, driving the point of the blade straight for his throat. "No one commands me." He didn't flinch. Before the metal could touch his hoodie, his other hand shot up. He caught my forearm mid-strike, his grip squeezing so hard a sharp, biting pain shot all the way to my shoulder. With a smooth, brutal twist of his wrist, he bent my arm back. My fingers went numb, dropping the knife onto the wood. In the next breath, he stepped directly into my space, his broad frame pinning me flush against the porch wall. His heavy shadow swallowed me whole. Through the narrow slits of his mask, a pair of cold eyes locked onto mine. "You pull steel on me again, little bird," he growled, the low vibration of his voice pressing right into my chest, "and I'll make you eat it. Don't go inside." "Get off me, you psycho!" I spat, digging my heels into the porch floor as I thrash against his hold. "You think I don't know you've been following me for months?! Back the f**k up right now, or I'll scream so loud the entire block comes out!" I braced for him to double down, to force his weight over me. Instead, his entire body went dead still. His head tilted back a fraction, his gaze tearing away from my face and cutting toward the front door. "Someone was here," he muttered, his tone dropping into a razor-thin whisper. The sharp shift in his voice sent a cold crawl over my skin, but I was so sick of his games. "Of course someone's here!" I snapped, throwing my full weight into pulling away. "My father is in there waiting for me!" With a hard shove, I swatted his hand off my wrist. He actually let go, his grip vanishing instantly. "Don't you ever come near my house again," I spat, rubbing the red pressure marks on my wrist as I turned toward the door. I took three fast steps, grabbed the brass knob, and twisted. The lock was already disengaged. "Hazel—" His low voice cut through the dark, reaching out to stop me again. "Shut up!" I snapped, shoving the front door wide open. "Dad! I brought the almond croiss—" The air caught in my throat. Directly in the center of the living room carpet, illuminated by the soft light of the hallway lamp, lay my father. He was sprawled on his back, his body terribly still. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, glassy and unseeing. Right in the exact center of his forehead was a dark, jagged bullet hole. A thick pool of crimson spread slowly beneath his head, soaking into the rug he had swept just this morning. The paper bag went limp in my grip, slipping from my fingers to hit the floorboards with a soft thud. The warm almond croissants tumbled out, rolling across the wood until one hit the edge of the dark pool, golden pastry turning red. "Dad?"