The small, cluttered garage in the back of Jake's house had always been a sanctuary of sorts for Samuel. A place where he could forget everything, lose himself in the music, and just be. The posters of old rock bands and faded concert tickets lined the walls, and the distinct smell of dust, sweat, and old amps filled the air. The beat-up drum set in the corner, the bass guitar leaning against the amp, and the microphone stand, dented and scarred, were all signs of years spent jamming, arguing, and finding solace in music.
But tonight, the familiar space felt different.
The hum of voices filled the garage as his friends tuned their instruments, the sounds blending together into a disjointed melody. Jake, the drummer, was tapping out a beat on his knee while leaning back on a stool. Marcus, their bassist, was hunched over his instrument, plucking strings and adjusting the volume knobs. And in the middle of it all stood Jenna—the only girl in the group and the one who always managed to stir the pot.
Sam stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, watching them. He still couldn't believe what they'd done.
"Hey, look who finally decided to show up," Jenna called out, her voice teasing. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and smirked at him. "Thought you were gonna bail on us, Sam."
Sam forced a tight smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Yeah, I'm here. Just had to finish a few things at home."
"Good. We were worried you'd gone soft on us," Jake joked, tapping his sticks together.
But Sam's gaze shifted, locking onto Jenna's wrist as she casually turned up the volume on the guitar amp. The tattoo was there, glaringly obvious, and completely identical to the strange markings on his own wrist. The geometric patterns twisted and curved in the exact same way as his. It made his stomach churn every time he saw it.
"So, Sam," Marcus began, glancing up and catching the tension in Sam's eyes, "you still mad at us?"
Sam took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. He'd been fuming ever since he saw what they'd done, but he'd kept his mouth shut, not wanting to blow up over it. But seeing them all now, each with those same tattoos staring back at him like some sick reminder of what he couldn't explain… it made his skin crawl.
"Mad?" Sam asked, his voice quiet, dangerously calm. "No, Marcus, I'm not mad. I'm pissed."
Marcus blinked, looking genuinely taken aback. "Come on, man, we thought it would be cool! A band thing, you know? We didn't think you'd—"
"Didn't think I'd what?" Sam snapped, stepping forward. "Didn't think I'd mind that you all got matching tattoos of something I didn't even understand? Something I never told you about? How the hell did you even know what they looked like?"
The three of them exchanged uncertain glances, and then Jenna stepped in, her voice smooth and soothing. "Sam, relax. I showed them the sketches I made of your wrists, okay? They thought it looked badass, and we figured… why not? We're a band, after all. Matching tattoos is like, a rite of passage, right?"
Sam's jaw clenched. He had shown Jenna the markings once—once—when he'd been desperate to figure out what they meant. He had trusted her, thought she'd understand how freaked out he was. And she had just… shown them to everyone? And then convinced them to copy something even he was still grappling with?
" How old are you guys? We are not teenagers anymore" he snapped.
"You had no right, Jenna," he said, voice low and strained. "This isn't just some stupid symbol. This… it's part of something I can't explain. Something weird. And you made it into a damn band logo?"
Jenna rolled her eyes, looking genuinely annoyed. "Jesus, Sam, it's just a tattoo. If you don't want to talk about what it means, fine. But don't act like we're the bad guys for wanting to support you."
"Support me?" Sam laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound. "This wasn't about supporting me. This was about you trying to make a statement or whatever. And you know what? You can do whatever the hell you want. But don't act like you did this for me."
A heavy silence filled the garage. Even Jake and Marcus, who usually followed Jenna's lead, looked a little guilty, like kids caught doing something they knew was wrong.
"Sam, we're sorry, okay?" Marcus said softly. "We didn't know it would upset you like this. We just… we thought it would be something cool to tie us together. That's all."
Sam shook his head, letting out a slow breath. "Yeah, well, you tied yourselves to something you don't understand. Not even I understand what these are and I told Emily I did not know how I got it, now seeing you jokers with it makes me look like a goddamn liar."
Jenna scoffed, crossing her arms and rolled her eyes, making it painfully obvious that she did not believe him either.
He stepped back, the tension still coiled tight in his chest, and glanced at his chair. The familiar urge to pick up a guitar, to drown out his emotions in music, surged up. But the sight of the tattoos on their wrists—his markings, copied like some fashion statement—killed any desire to play.
"I can't do this tonight," he muttered, turning away and heading for the door.
"Sam, wait!" Marcus called out, but Sam didn't stop.
"Just… practice without me," Sam said over his shoulder, his voice heavy with resignation. "You guys wanted to show your support? Then do me a favor—don't show those tattoos to anyone else."
With that, he stepped out of the garage, the door closing behind him with a solid, final thud. He took a deep breath, staring up at the night sky, trying to steady himself.
He knew he was being harsh. They were just his friends, his bandmates. But they had no idea what those markings meant, how much problem they had put him in just by having them.
He needed at least the night away from them and hope that Emily did not ever see the stupid markings they all put on their wrist.
Several hours later, The fluorescent lights in the convenience store buzzed overhead, casting an eerie, washed-out glow across the nearly empty aisles. Jake grabbed a six-pack of beer from the refrigerated section and made his way toward the counter, nodding absentmindedly to the cashier as he dropped a crumpled twenty on the counter.
"Late night run?" the cashier asked with a tired smile, her eyes flicking to the clock that read just past midnight.
"Yeah, something like that," Jake muttered, his gaze shifting toward the large windows at the front of the store. Outside, the parking lot was dimly lit, the streetlights casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the cracked asphalt like fingers. He had parked his car close to the entrance, but it suddenly felt a lot farther away than he remembered.
"Keep the change," he said quickly, grabbing the beer and pushing through the glass doors, the bell above them jingling softly. He kept his head down as he walked, the cold air nipping at his exposed skin.
It was probably nothing. Just his imagination. But for the past few days, he'd had the unsettling sensation of being watched. It was stupid—he knew it was stupid—but every time he left band practice or headed out on his own, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck, as if eyes were following his every move.
Jake unlocked his car and tossed the six-pack onto the passenger seat, his movements hurried. He glanced around the parking lot, the shadows looking deeper, darker somehow. Just get in the car and go home, he told himself.
But then he saw it.
A figure—dark and still—standing at the edge of the parking lot, partially hidden in the shadows between two streetlights. They didn't move, didn't make a sound. They just stood there, watching.
Jake's heart hammered in his chest. He strained his eyes, trying to make out any details, but the figure was obscured, cloaked in darkness. He swallowed hard, feeling a surge of cold dread run through him. With shaking hands, he yanked open the car door and jumped inside, locking it behind him. The figure remained unmoving.
"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, fumbling for his phone as he started the engine. He glanced up again, but the figure was gone. Just like that. As if it had never been there.
Jake's breath came out in a harsh rush as he stared at the empty spot where the person had been standing just moments ago. Had he imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks on him?
His fingers trembled as he pulled up the group chat on his phone, hesitating only for a second before typing out a message.
Jake: Guys… I think someone's following me.
He hit send, then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He couldn't stay here. He needed to get home. With one last wary glance around the parking lot, he shifted the car into gear and peeled out of the lot, the tires screeching against the pavement.
The drive back to his apartment was a blur. Every shadow seemed to shift, every car that passed made him flinch. When he finally pulled into his building's parking garage, his phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with new messages.
Marcus: Dude, what? Are you serious?
Jenna: Following you? Like… in a car or on foot?
Jake: I don't know. I just… I saw someone. In the parking lot. Just standing there. Watching me.
There was a pause before another message popped up.
Jenna: Jake, are you sure it wasn't just some random person? I mean, you know how late-night places can get weirdos hanging around.
Jake shook his head, even though no one could see him. His pulse was still racing, his skin prickling with unease.
Jake: No, this felt different. I've been feeling like someone's been watching me for days now. I'm not imagining this, I swear.
Another pause, then a message from Sam.
Sam: You should call the police, man. If you're feeling unsafe, get them to check it out.
Jake sighed, leaning back in the driver's seat. The police. Right. What was he going to tell them? That some creepy guy in a parking lot was looking at him? That he felt like someone was following him? They'd think he was losing it.
Jake: The cops won't do anything. It's just a feeling. I just wanted to let you guys know in case… I dunno. Something happens.
His phone vibrated almost immediately.
Marcus: "Happens"? Don't be so dramatic, dude. You're fine. Just get some sleep.
Jenna: Yeah, Jake. Maybe take a day off or something. You've been working too hard. You're probably just stressed.
Jake stared at the messages, frustration bubbling up inside him. He knew what he'd seen. That figure hadn't been some random person. There had been intent there—he'd felt it. The way they'd just stood there, watching, unmoving...
But clearly, no one believed him.
Jake: Fine. Forget it. I'll see you guys tomorrow.
He tossed his phone back onto the seat, running a hand through his hair. He was wound tight, his nerves frayed, but maybe they were right. Maybe it was just stress. Maybe—
The faint echo of a footstep sounded in the garage, cutting through his thoughts. He froze, his heart skipping a beat. Slowly, he turned his head, peering through the windshield.
Nothing.
The garage was empty, the dim overhead lights casting long, eerie shadows.
"Get a grip, Jake," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, even as he got out of the car and made his way up to his apartment.