The next afternoon the group gathered at their local pub.
The pub was still buzzing with energy long after the band had wrapped up their set. The familiar scent of beer, sweat, and fried food mingled in the air as patrons raised glasses in appreciation, clinking and cheering. It was their usual spot, a comfortable place where the crowd knew them by name and cheered for them like old friends.
"Great show tonight, guys!" Jake slurred slightly, his cheeks flushed from the post-performance adrenaline and the three beers he'd downed afterward. "I think we might've nailed that new song."
Jenna grinned, leaning casually against the bar. "Of course we did. Because I was on guitar." She raised her glass, and the others laughed, clinking drinks together.
Marcus smiled but kept his distance, nursing a glass of water. He'd promised himself he'd keep a clear head tonight. Ever since that weird encounter a few nights back, he'd felt... off. He hadn't told the others, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was still being watched. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he wanted to be alert.
"Alright, alright," Sam said, holding up his hands. "Let's not get too cocky. We were decent. Not amazing, just... decent."
"Decent?" Jenna scoffed, nudging him in the ribs. "Come on, Sam, we were better than decent!"
They all laughed again, the sound relaxed and easy. For a moment, it felt like old times. The weird tension from before—ever since Sam had found out about the tattoos—had been fading, and it seemed like they were finally getting back to being themselves
"Hey, great job tonight, man," Jake said, clapping him on the back a little harder than necessary. "You okay? You've been kinda quiet."
"Yeah, just a little tired," Marcus muttered, forcing a smile. "I think I'm gonna head out early."
Jenna pouted, her lips pursed in disappointment. "What? You're ditching us already?"
Marcus shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Early shift tomorrow. You guys stay, have a couple more drinks on me."
"Your loss," Jenna teased, giving him a quick hug before turning back to the others. "Be safe."
With a nod to the rest of the group, Marcus slipped out of the pub. The cool night air greeted him like a welcome friend, clearing his head. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the persistent feeling that something wasn't right.
He kept his hands in his jacket pockets as he made his way down the sidewalk, his footsteps echoing softly. The street was quieter now, the usual hustle and bustle of the evening thinning out. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dark alleyways and shadowed corners, but saw nothing.
"Get a grip, Marcus," he murmured to himself. "It's just in your head."
His car was parked a few blocks away, down a narrow alley he always cut through to save time. It was stupid, really. His nerves were just acting up after what had happened a few nights ago. There was no one following him. No one watching.
He turned down the alley, his footsteps quickening as he kept his head low. But as he rounded the corner, something shifted—a dark figure, standing just a few feet away.
Marcus froze, his breath catching in his throat. The figure didn't move, their silhouette barely visible under the weak glow of a flickering streetlamp.
"Who's there?" Marcus called, his voice wavering slightly. He tried to sound strong, but his heart pounded violently in his chest.
The figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate, revealing a man dressed in dark clothing, his face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood. He wasn't carrying any weapon that Marcus could see, but there was something in his posture—in the way he held himself—that made Marcus's skin crawl.
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Marcus stammered, backing up a step. "I'm just trying to get home."
The man didn't respond. Instead, he took another step forward, his gaze fixed on Marcus with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Marcus's neck stand on end.
Marcus turned, ready to run, but before he could take another step, the man moved—fast, too fast. A sharp pain exploded at the back of Marcus's head, and his vision blurred. He stumbled, disoriented, his legs buckling as he tried to keep his balance.
"No—" he gasped, but the world around him spun violently. His foot caught on something—maybe a loose piece of concrete or a crack in the pavement—and he felt himself falling. Everything slowed as his body pitched forward, arms flailing uselessly as he tried to catch himself.
He hit the ground hard, his head cracking against the curb. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, and his body went limp, the world around him fading to black.
When Marcus came to, he couldn't move. Everything felt distant, like he was floating. He blinked sluggishly, his gaze shifting to a blurry shape kneeling beside him. The man was still there, his hood pulled lower, obscuring his face completely.
He heard a faint metallic click—the man pulling out a small, sharp object. Something cold brushed against Marcus's wrist, and then he felt it—something pressing down on his tattoo, tracing the intricate lines with the blade. Not cutting. Just... tracing.
The pain in his head grew sharper, and darkness began to creep at the edges of his vision. He wanted to fight, to say something, but his body wouldn't respond. The man finished his inspection, then stood and, with one final glance at Marcus, slipped back into the shadows of the alley.
The world went black again.
It was early morning when the garbage collector found Marcus lying crumpled against the curb, his body twisted at an odd angle. He looked like he'd fallen—maybe slipped on a patch of uneven pavement and hit his head. The garbage collector hesitated, then pulled out his phone, dialing 911.
The paramedics arrived within minutes, lifting Marcus onto a stretcher. Blood matted his hair, and his pulse was weak but steady. He was unconscious, completely unresponsive.
The EMTs exchanged a look, one of them frowning as he shone a light into Marcus's eyes. "Head trauma. Possible concussion. We need to get him to the hospital."
"Do you think it was an assault?" one of the officers on the scene asked, looking down at the young man's limp form.
"Could be… Hard to say," the paramedic replied, glancing at the dark alley. "No signs of a struggle, no obvious bruising. Could've just been an accident. He might've tripped, fallen, hit his head pretty hard."
As they loaded Marcus into the ambulance, one of the officers knelt beside where he'd been found, peering down at a patch of ground stained faintly with blood. A piece of gravel, sharp and jagged, lay near the curb.
"Could've slipped on this," the officer murmured, standing up and dusting off his hands. "Kid got unlucky."
They closed the ambulance doors, the siren wailing as it sped away into the distance.
Back at the pub, Sam's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, frowning as an unknown number flashed across the display.
"Hello?" he answered hesitantly.
"Are you a family member or friend of Marcus Laird?" a brisk, professional voice asked.
"Yes, he is a friend of mine. Why? What's going on?"
The voice softened slightly. "I'm calling from St. Mary's Hospital. My name is Doctor McFarlane. Your number was in the wallet of Mr. Laird as he was brought in early this morning. He was found unconscious with a serious head injury. He's stable, but still unconscious."
Sam's heart dropped. "What? What happened?"
"It looks like he took a bad fall. He is in the ICU. You should come down if you can."
Sam swallowed hard, his mind reeling. "Yeah… yeah, I'll be there soon."
He ended the call and sat there, staring blankly at the phone. Just a fall? It didn't make any sense. Marcus had been fine when he'd left. Maybe a little on edge, but nothing like this.
He quickly texted the others.
Sam: Guys, Marcus is in the hospital. They say he fell and hit his head. I'm heading there now.
Jenna: What?! How? Was he drunk?
Jake: We need to check on him. That's… weird.
Sam didn't reply. He grabbed his jacket and keys, his mind racing. Something wasn't right. He couldn't explain it, but a deep unease gnawed at his gut.
The bandmates kept a regular vigil at the hospital for the first twenty four hours after Marcus's injury, mixing with his family members to show their support. After the first day, they decided to take turns visiting, as the hospital was strict on number of visitors allowed.
The doctor's said Marcus had abnormal swelling on his brain, and they had to keep him sedated until the swelling went down. No one was able to speak to him about what happened. They brought flowers and cards and was there for the immediate family.
No one in the group bought the story that Marcus fell, even though that was what the cops had decided. They saw that he was drinking, the sidewalk was dark and nothing was taken from him.
An unfortunate accident.
They tried to go on with their normal lives and do a week night gig at the usual spot. The owner had told them he would understand if they decided against playing that night but they all felt like they owed it to Marcus to play, and they did so with a heavy heart.
They embraced as they left the bar, with Jenna acknowledging she would go to the hospital the next day.
Jenna made it to the hospital as soon as she left work, and manage to spend a few hours with Marcus mother. It was late when she left the hospital, humming softly to herself as she drove away from the hospital, the rhythm of the music on the radio blending with the steady purr of her car's engine. She tried to convince herself that everything would be okay. But the sight of Marcus lying there, pale and unconscious, still gnawed at her.
She shook her head, trying to clear the unsettling image. "Fucking accident my ass," she murmured aloud.
Her phone buzzed from the passenger seat, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced over and saw a message from Jake.
Jake: Hey, you heading home? How about a drink and talk ?
Jenna smiled faintly, touched by the offer. She picked up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen to reply, but then thought better of it. She'd text him back once she got home. Right now, all she wanted was a long shower and to clear her head.
As she turned onto the winding road that led to her neighborhood, she felt herself relax a little. This stretch was always quiet, bordered by a thick line of trees on one side and a sloping embankment on the other. A place where she could drive with the windows down and enjoy the peace and quiet.
Just as she reached over to adjust the radio, she noticed a pair of headlights appearing in her rearview mirror—bright and unexpected. She squinted, glancing back as the vehicle seemed to come out of nowhere, closing in fast behind her.
"Huh," Jenna muttered, frowning. "Where did you come from?"
The road was usually deserted at this time of night. Her heart gave a small jump, but she brushed it off. Probably just someone else taking a shortcut through the back roads.
But as she drove on, the car didn't pass. Instead, it stayed right on her tail, its headlights glaring in her mirror, almost blinding her. Jenna's unease began to build, prickling at the back of her neck.
"Alright, buddy, what's your deal?" she murmured, glancing back at the car. She slowed down slightly, expecting it to pass. But the vehicle didn't. Instead, it slowed to match her pace, staying dangerously close.
Okay, this is getting weird, Jenna thought, her pulse quickening. She took a deep breath, telling herself it was probably just some jerk trying to mess with her. Maybe a drunk driver not paying attention. Nothing more.
She flicked her turn signal, deciding to let the car go around. But as she began to pull to the side, the vehicle behind her swerved suddenly, jerking into the oncoming lane. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched it accelerate, coming up beside her.
"What the hell?" she gasped, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She glanced over, trying to get a look at the driver. But the windows were tinted, concealing the person inside.
The car veered closer, its side brushing against hers, the impact making her car swerve slightly. Panic surged through her, and she yanked the steering wheel to the right, putting distance between them.
"Stop it!" she shouted, though the other driver couldn't hear her. Fear twisted in her gut as the other car drifted back beside her, almost as if it were taunting her.
Her fingers fumbled for her phone, still lying on the passenger seat. She needed to call for help. But before she could grab it, the car slammed into hers with brutal force.
The impact sent her car skidding sideways, her tires squealing against the asphalt. Jenna fought to keep control, her heart pounding wildly. "Oh my God, oh my God!" she gasped, jerking the wheel to correct the slide.
The other car didn't let up. It rammed her again, harder this time, and she felt the entire vehicle shudder violently.
"No, no, no!" Jenna cried, her breath coming in panicked gasps. She tried to accelerate, to put some distance between them, but the other driver matched her speed, staying glued to her side.
And then, just as suddenly, the car swerved again, this time aiming for her front fender. Jenna's eyes widened in horror as the car clipped her front bumper, sending her car spinning.
"Shit!" she screamed, the world outside the windows blurring as her car twisted uncontrollably. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she gritted her teeth, desperately trying to regain control.
But it was too late. The car skidded off the road, tires screeching as it plowed through the gravel shoulder and hurtled down the embankment.
The vehicle flipped.
Once. Twice. Metal screeched, glass shattered, and Jenna's screams were drowned out by the deafening sound of the crash. She felt herself tossed around, the seatbelt digging painfully into her chest as her head slammed against the side window. Pain flared, and then the world flipped again.
When the car finally came to a shuddering stop, it lay on its side, the frame twisted and broken. Jenna blinked, dazed and disoriented, blood dripping from a cut on her forehead. Everything hurt. Her entire body felt like it had been crushed.
With a groan, she tried to move, but pain lanced through her side, and she gasped, falling back against the seat.
It was only then, as she lay there, struggling to breathe, that the reality of what had happened truly sank in.
This wasn't an accident. They'd been targeting her. Like they'd targeted Marcus. Whoever it was, they were coming after them—one by one.
She forced her eyes open, the world swimming in and out of focus. Above, at the top of the embankment, she could make out the shape of the car that had run her off the road. It idled there for a moment, engine rumbling softly.
Through the pain and confusion, Jenna felt a surge of cold, hard anger. They wanted to scare her, maybe even kill her. But she wasn't going to go down that easily.
"Bastard…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
But then, to her horror, the car door opened. A figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a chilling calmness. Jenna's breath caught in her throat as the man started walking down the hill toward her, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
"No…" she whimpered, her fingers scrabbling weakly against the crushed interior of the car. She tried to move, to do something, but her body wouldn't respond.
The man stepped closer, his face still hidden in the shadows, and Jenna's eyes widened as she saw something glint in his hand.
A knife.
A wave of cold terror washed over her as he approached, the blade reflecting the faint light of the car's shattered headlights. He reached the car and leaned down, peering in through the shattered window. Jenna could barely see his eyes beneath the hood of his jacket, but the cruelty in them was unmistakable.
"Why…?" she whispered, her voice fading.
But the man didn't respond. He simply watched her for a moment longer, then reached through the window, the knife glinting ominously as it moved closer to her face.
The last thing Jenna saw before the darkness claimed her was the blade hovering inches from her skin, and the calm, unblinking eyes of the man who had come to finish what he'd started.
Then everything went black.
It was hours later when a jogger, taking an evening run along the deserted road, noticed the twisted metal wreckage at the bottom of the embankment. He scrambled down, his heart pounding as he saw the figure slumped inside the car.
"Hey!" he shouted, yanking out his phone and dialing 911. "I found a car—it's crashed down here, and there's someone inside! Please, send help!"
He stayed on the line, breathless and panicked, as he watched the young woman's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. She was alive, but just barely.
"Hang on," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "Help's coming. Just hang on."
The sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The jogger crouched beside the wreckage, his heart aching at the sight of the battered woman inside. Whoever she was, she had been through hell.