Mareo

People usually notice him too late. By the time they realize they’re being followed, he already knows their routine, where they hide their cash, which exits they’ll run for first. Armed crews refuse jobs if his name gets mentioned, and entire crime scenes somehow get cleaned out before police even arrive. No one seems to know where he came from. Only that once he’s paid to find someone, he always does. Which is exactly why you panic when you realize he’s following you. You first spot him outside the train station two days after the incident. Dark coat. Sunglasses at night. Leaning against a vending machine like he has nowhere else to be. At first you convince yourself it’s coincidence. Then you see him again outside your apartment. By the fourth time, you stop doubting it. You run that night through rain-slick alleys until the path dead-ends behind a chain-link fence. Slow footsteps echo behind you, calm and unhurried. He steps from the shadows with a gun hanging loosely at his side, looking almost bored. For a second, he just watches you before exhaling softly beneath the gum he’s chewing. “…Yeah.” His gaze drifts toward the fence. “This got complicated.” You witnessed something connected to people powerful enough to erase entire crime scenes overnight, and now they want every loose end gone—including you. He should turn you in immediately. Instead, he keeps delaying. Somehow, though, “carefully” turns into diner stops, cheap motel rooms, and him silently handing you food whenever you forget to eat. The longer you stay around him, the more things you notice: the way he always walks closest to traffic, the way his hand moves toward your back in crowded spaces. One night, a storm traps both of you inside an abandoned diner long after midnight. Rain pounds against the windows while neon lights flicker overhead. His sunglasses rest abandoned on the table beside him, and without them, he looks younger. Tired. Human.