CHAPTER 38: CHAPTER 38: MARKS IN THE MORNING

"Don’t panic," Juliet said, holding up the city bulletin.

Frank stared at the holographic projection floating above her wristband.

Then back down at the symbol someone had scrawled across the front of his building.

Then back at her.

"I’m not panicking," he said. "I’m just... recalculating how many people I need to yell at today."

Juliet folded her arms. "It’s not just you. Look."

She tapped the projection—dozens of red flags appeared on a city map: train stations, rooftops, storefronts, even the fountain in Guild Square.

Each one had a crude five-point symbol, hastily painted, etched, or burned into place.

Same jagged corners. Same uneven spacing.

The same one Frank had seen in the forest.

The same one he thought no one else would ever use again.

He leaned closer to the bulletin. "City’s calling it an art prank?"

Juliet snorted. "Association tagged it as non-harmful. Just ’esoteric vandalism.’"

"That’s a fancy way of saying they’re too lazy to investigate."

Juliet handed him a portable scanner. "You want to check the one on your building?"

"I’d rather not find out it’s glowing the hard way."

Frank stepped forward, aimed the scanner, and pressed the side panel.

The results beeped once.

[Scan Complete – Trace Signature: Organic Compound, Uncoded]

[Residual Heat Detected – Application Time: Less than 4 Hours Ago]

"They’re fresh," he muttered. "Someone did this in the middle of the night."

Juliet’s brow furrowed. "Why yours, though? And so many?"

Frank didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked at the symbol.

And remembered the mimic’s voice.

The cult didn’t need system access.

They didn’t need magic.

They just needed a pattern, a belief, and a body.

Juliet stepped closer. "You know something."

"I know this," Frank said quietly. "It’s not random. They’re not just drawing these for fun."

She leaned in. "Then what?"

"They’re drawing them to see who responds."

A long pause.

Then Juliet said, "Okay. Let’s respond first."

"I still think this is a waste of time," Frank muttered as the security doors slid open.

Juliet didn’t look back. "If we start poking around and something blows up, the Association will ask why we didn’t say anything first."

"They’ll ask, then they’ll file it under ’citizen concern’ and route it to the department of Polite Ignorance."

They stepped into the Association’s Nexus District HQ—all clean steel, glowing floor plates, and the subtle hum of bureaucratic detachment. Reception was a semicircle of blank screens and one exhausted intern sipping something bright blue.

Juliet walked up confidently.

"Moss Juliet. Freelance hunter. This is Frank Hagan. Independent trader. We’re here to report a mass public tagging incident."

The intern blinked. "Like... graffiti?"

Frank leaned in. "Unless your local taggers use teeth dust and blood for paint."

The intern blinked again, slower this time.

Juliet opened a scan file on her wristband and flicked it to the desk terminal. "City-wide spread. Matching symbols. No signature matches. No magical residue, but high coordination. We’ve counted over thirty so far."

The intern stared at the data. "Uh... I’ll call someone."

Frank leaned on the desk. "Make sure it’s someone who does more than take notes and nod condescendingly."

Juliet nudged him with her elbow. "Stop."

"I’m calm," Frank said. "I’m politely skeptical."

A few minutes later, they were seated in a side room with a middle-aged agent wearing a rumpled Association jacket and a face that screamed early retirement desire.

He glanced at the projection once, sighed, and sat.

"Alright. You’re here about the city symbols. We’ve had a few reports."

Juliet nodded. "Any idea where they came from?"

"Local prankers. One group claims it’s a protest art campaign. Something about ’breaking silence in the grid.’"

Frank narrowed his eyes. "They’re organized, they’re targeting old streets, and they’re drawing in human ash."

The man shrugged. "Still no magical signature. So far, no evidence of hostile intent."

Juliet leaned forward. "Wouldn’t it be smarter to treat it like a threat before it explodes?"

"We don’t jump to conclusions," the agent said. "We log, track, observe."

Frank rolled his eyes. "Wow. Bold strategy."

"Sir, if this is a problem, the system will pick it up."

Frank stood. "You’re standing in the system. And it didn’t notice when I got yanked into a dimensionless pocket and dropped on a planet with no exit sign."

The agent blinked.

Juliet stood too, already tired. "We’re done here."

Frank walked toward the door, then turned back with a small smile.

"Hey. When something does explode, and this symbol burns itself into your nice, clean desk—remember I told you first."

The agent didn’t reply.

Juliet and Frank exited in silence.

Once outside, she asked, "Feel better?"

"No," Frank muttered. "But at least now I’m angry and correct."

"I hate when you’re right," Juliet muttered, flashlight cutting a path through the cracked stairwell.

Frank followed behind, hands tucked in his coat pockets. "You’ll get used to it. I’ve been right a lot lately. It’s exhausting."

They’d tracked one of the tags to a location not far from the edge of District 3—a sealed-off train tunnel, abandoned after a collapse five years ago. The rails were rusted, the walls sweat with condensation, and every few feet, someone had spray-painted new warding signs.

Not protective ones. Just warnings.

"DO NOT ENTER."

"KEEP THE SKY CLEAN."

"IT’S NEVER JUST A SYMBOL."

"Why here?" Juliet asked as they passed a burnt-out station map. "It’s cut off. Dead zone."

"That’s the point," Frank said. "No eyes. No questions. No one to hear if something screams."

Juliet stopped near the platform’s edge.

Her light caught a symbol—carved, not painted—into the wall behind the broken ticket counter.

It was the same five-pointed shape. But this one was different.

Deeper. Clean. Fresh.

And something oozed from the groove. Not blood. Not ink. Just... dark.

Frank stepped closer, crouched, and touched the edge with a gloved finger.

Still wet.

Juliet’s hand moved to her dagger. "This wasn’t here yesterday."

"Feels like it was added just before dawn," Frank muttered. "A different material too. Not paint. Not ash."

He scanned the platform.

Then saw it—faint chalk outlines along the floor tiles in a wide circle. Disguised under grime. Half-smudged from time and traffic.

"They’re building something," he said. "Not random tags. They’re marking a site."

Juliet looked around, tension in her stance. "How big?"

Frank followed the lines with his eyes.

Then swallowed.

"Big enough to fit a person inside."

They didn’t speak for a moment.

Then Juliet said, "So what do we do?"

Frank stood, brushed his hands on his coat, and muttered:

"We ruin it before they can finish it."

Juliet crouched by the edge of the chalk circle, fingers dragging lightly through the dried groove. "They’re not done."

Frank stood beside her, flashlight tucked low in his palm. "How can you tell?"

She pointed to the far wall—barely visible in the dim light, a smear of fresh red paint, just a line, angled like a corner.

"Taggers don’t use corners," she muttered. "Ritualists do."

Frank nodded. "So they’re coming back."

"They never left," Juliet corrected. "They just wait until the city’s asleep."

Frank looked around, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Fine. Let’s ruin their night plans."

They set everything in motion within twenty minutes.

Juliet rigged a trip line across the far tunnel entrance, hid it behind a thin spill of cloth. Frank calibrated two small light mines—modified flares with a concussion flash—to trigger off movement within the circle.

Then they positioned the bait.

A folded jacket, a broken rune charm, and a heat-emitting decoy roughly human-shaped. Just enough for someone to think a target was meditating in the ritual center.

"Convincing?" Juliet asked.

Frank eyed it. "Honestly? More convincing than most of my early market pitches."

She smirked. "Then we wait."

They hunkered behind a rusted maintenance booth, close enough to see, far enough not to be seen. The air hung heavy. The shadows didn’t flicker anymore—they just sat still, like something holding its breath.

Juliet whispered, "You ever stake out a death circle before?"

"First time," Frank murmured. "Feels exactly how I imagined: damp and judgmental."

"You’re tense."

"I’m in a tunnel surrounded by old bones and graffiti warnings. If I weren’t tense, I’d be dead."

Juliet chuckled softly. "Fair."

They sat in silence a moment longer.

Then—

A crunch.

Boot on stone.

Juliet stiffened.

Frank’s fingers slid toward his trigger glyph.

But no one appeared in the tunnel mouth.

Instead, a voice—close. Too close.

"That’s them."

Frank whipped around—too late.

A figure stepped out from the tunnel wall, cloak drawn, face obscured by a rough leather mask. Behind him, another slipped out from the shadows by the stairs—eyes wild, teeth visible through cracked lips.

Juliet was on her feet instantly, blade half-drawn.

The first cultist raised a hand. "We were told to wait until the sky went quiet. But look what we found early."

Frank stood slowly, hands raised. "We can talk about this."

"You’re already part of the sentence," said the second figure, grinning. "You walked into the circle."

Juliet moved slightly to the left, positioning between Frank and the pair. "You don’t want this fight."

The first cultist didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, eyes locked on Frank.

"Oh," he said, almost softly. "But we need him."