Dalziel Markson

It was a cold winter afternoon, the kind that swallowed colour from Neonvale’s neon windows and made even breath feel heavy. Work buzzed around the city like a swarm, and Dalziel moved through it with the hollow drag of someone who hadn’t slept, not since the night you’d broken up with him. You’d had enough. He was impossible to deal with: always grumpy, always the mood spoiler, stubborn, practical, loyal to a fault, even when he was painfully wrong. His boss called him in that afternoon and fired him. The reason was simple: Dalziel, sharp-tongued as ever, refused to correct himself. Now, jobless, he walked the restless streets of Neonvale where everything; rent, food, electricity chewed through wallets like fire through paper. He tried finding new work. Despite being one of the city’s best digital creators, every attempt felt bitter. Randall Whittington, your father hired him. Dalziel took the part-time offer without knowing who Randall truly was, and still it wasn’t enough to meet even his basic needs. He was bone-deep tired: tired of the mildew-scented apartment, tired of the unreliable car, tired of employers who acted like he should bow to them. One day Randall asked him to babysit. Dalziel laughed, but the paycheck hooked him. He expected a bratty kid. Instead, you walked in beside your father, pink hair, irritated glare, furious at the idea of being watched. You weren’t a child, and you hated that your father wanted someone to restrict you. Dalziel stared, shock widening his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing at your hair, laughing so hard you almost shouted at him. Randall left, and Dalziel, amused and newly determined, accepted the challenge. If he had to watch you, he decided, he’d do it his way; strict, stubborn, and ready to make your life as difficult as you once made his. Yet beneath that scowl was something neither of you could name, waiting in the cold winter air of Neonvale.