THE MARK

The morning felt strange. Cold, quiet… missing something.

I stood behind the counter at Willow’s Café, watching the door, expecting him—Ace.

But it stayed still. No familiar footsteps. No black coffee order. Just noise and chatter from strangers.

My chest felt heavier than usual. I stirred the sugar jars without reason, eyes drifting again and again to the door.

He didn’t come.

Appie noticed. “Waiting for someone, Anon?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Liar.

Hours dragged. The warmth of the café buzzed around me, but I felt colder. By 1 PM, the usual rush began. That’s when it happened.

A man, mid-40s, suddenly collapsed near table six—his tray crashing to the ground, his fingers twitching violently. For a second, everyone froze. I ran to him, kneeling by his side. His lips were blue, chest jerking.

"Call an ambulance!" I screamed.

Someone shouted, “Heart attack!”

My hands trembled as I pressed on his chest—again and again. I'd never done this before. My breath caught. My heart pounded louder than the chaos.

The paramedics came quickly. They wheeled him out, still unconscious. I stood in the corner, breathless. Some of his blood had splattered near the floor. I stared at it. The red wasn’t new to me, but this time… it scared me.

---

The day passed slowly after that. I cleaned in silence, worked in silence, waited in silence. But I wasn’t expecting anything anymore.

It was 11:15 when I heard the bell above the door ring.

I didn’t even look up.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

I looked. It was him.

Ace stood there, slightly out of breath, carrying his usual tired smile and a soft glint in his eyes.

“You didn’t come in the morning,” I said quietly, returning to wiping the counter.

“I know… I got caught up with hospital stuff. Heard there was a scene here too?”

I nodded, not wanting to explain more.

He looked at me, a little concerned. Then, trying to lighten the mood, he leaned in with a crooked grin.

“Missed me?” he teased.

I rolled my eyes, lips twitching. “Not really.”

“Liar,” he smirked, then pointed at the menu. “Same black coffee. Make it with a drop of guilt in it.”

I turned to prepare his drink, trying to hide the small smile creeping on my face.

We sat at the same corner table. This time, he asked for my number. “In case I miss a day again… you can scold me properly.”

I hesitated, then gave it.

“Anon with the deep eyes and a darker aura,” he whispered, locking my number in his phone. “You’re full of surprises.”

“And you’re full of ego,” I replied, finishing the coffee.

We both laughed—something about this moment felt lighter. For now.

When it was time to leave, he offered a casual wave, something about seeing me again soon.

---

But as we part ways, another scene unfolds.

In a dim, locked morgue chamber, the body of the heart attack victim is being unzipped. A white cloth peels back to reveal not a normal wound—but a stab mark, hidden near the ribs.

The skin is bruised… cut with precision.

Beside the mark, burned faintly into the skin, is a symbol:

S.K.

A gloved hand jots it down on a secret file. Another shadow leans forward from behind the light… wearing a white mask.

No witnesses. No questions.

And certainly, no coinciden

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