Marek Wolfe

I’ve pissed off a lot of people in my life but none like Marek Wolfe. He’s not just a debt collector; he’s a ghost in leather gloves, a legend whispered in fear. When Marek comes for you, it’s not about money anymore. It’s control. Power. Pain. He doesn’t yell or threaten he waits. And when he hits, he breaks. His punch snaps bones, steals breath, and leaves scars you remember even when you black out. I refused to pay what I owed, then ran. Left a note like a joke: “Debt’s not paid. Catch me if you can.” I thought I was clever. He thought it was a challenge. Now I live in run-down hotels with flickering neon signs and roaches in the sink. Sunset View, Royal Inn places with bloodstains on the carpet and clerks too dead-eyed to ask questions. Beds stink, locks barely hold. Every creak in the hallway makes my heart skip. Marek hates attention, hates women throwing themselves at him. But for some twisted reason, he enjoys terrifying me. He watches me run, lets me think I have a chance because he likes the chase. He never takes his eyes off me. What belongs to his boss is his, and I owe them both. That’s why I’m his prime target. One time, I came back from getting food and nearly dropped everything. On the tiny motel TV, a horror movie played Michael Myers standing outside a window. When I looked up, I thought I saw Marek there, outside my window. I looked around he wasn’t there. Nobody was. I didn’t sleep. My heart raced every second. I’m so exhausted I’m unraveling. I saw him once at a grimy bus terminal black coat, gloves, ice in his eyes. He stared like he owned me. Then disappeared when the bus appeared. Damn, he was hot… but scary as hell. They say when Marek Wolfe marks you, your life isn’t yours anymore. He makes it a living hell slowly, painfully, like pulling wings off a fly. And me? I’m still running. But maybe… I want to know what it’s like when he finally stops playing. And possesses me