THE MARK

Gasping.

And gasping.

And gasping…

It felt like I had been running for days.

Then—light.

My eyes snapped open to a white ceiling, the rhythmic beep… beep… beep of a monitor, and a soft, trembling sound beside me—sniffing, coughing, and the kind of crying only someone who truly cares can make.

“Shiela?” I croaked.

She jolted like she’d been electrocuted and threw herself at me, hugging me tight.

“Fara! Oh my God, you’re awake! I was so worried!” she sobbed into my hospital gown. Judging by her smeared eyeliner and the way she smelled faintly of cold coffee, she’d been here for hours.

That meant one thing:

I’d been out way too long.

My head pounded. It felt like I’d been thrown into a meat grinder, spun around, then stitched back together with no anesthesia.

But what hit harder was the sudden emptiness in my memory.

I couldn’t remember anything.

Only fragments remained—the call from the High Table, a mission, a target—and then… nothing.

“What… what happened to me?” I asked weakly.

“Oh, yeah… the doctors said you fainted on your way home,” Shiela said, eyes red but smiling now. “Good thing a man saw you collapse and brought you here. He saved your life.”

A man?

That didn’t add up.

I was sure I was on a mission, not heading home. And if I’d been in the middle of a kill, I’d have been in my combat suit, not—

I looked down.

My breath caught.

I was in my school uniform.

What the actual hell?

That suit is skin-tight, custom-made, and I never take it off during missions. Someone would have had to undress me, clean me up, and redress me—and that? That was impossible.

“The doctors said you should rest first, Fara,” Shiela added, patting my head like I was a toddler.

“I think I’m okay now,” I replied, forcing a tired smile.

---

Within the hour, I was discharged. Shiela insisted on escorting me back to my apartment, hovering like a mother hen. Once we reached my building, she gave me one last worried look before we parted ways.

As soon as the door closed behind me, I turned into a whirlwind.

I tore through my apartment, searching every drawer, every crevice, every hidden compartment.

“My transmitter… where is it?” I muttered, panic rising.

It was gone.

And that made no sense.

I never lose it. I’m not clumsy. I’m trained to keep my tools close, no matter what. The transmitter is embedded in my ear most of the time.

Someone had taken it.

And more importantly… someone cleaned me up.

Not just physically—but completely erased the traces of the mission.

That only raised more questions.

I called the High Table.

“What was my last mission?” I asked the operator coldly.

There was a pause on the line.

“That’s a strange question coming from you, Lea.”

“Say it,” I snapped.

“Well… since you insist. Your last mission was to eliminate the virus coder in the Orion Building. And you completed it successfully.”

That didn’t feel right.

“What time did I report it?”

Another pause.

“Now that is weird… the time of report was exactly 12:37 a.m.”

I clicked my tongue.

Five hours ago.

So I fainted right after reporting it? Before changing my clothes? Before leaving the building?

Impossible.

My mind raced with theories. None made sense.

I needed a break.

I filled the tub, poured in hot water, and slipped inside.

Steam clouded the room. I let myself breathe.

I closed my eyes and tried to piece together everything—my memory loss, the missing suit, the uniform, the “mysterious man,” and the fact that no one at the hospital remembered who he was.

“Something’s wrong.”

After soaking for twenty minutes, I stepped out and wiped the fog from the mirror.

I froze.

There, on my left shoulder blade—just below the curve of my neck—was a strange mark.

A twisted rune, inked in deep red, shaped like a claw wrapping around a teardrop.

“What the hell…” I muttered, rubbing at it hard.

Nothing.

I grabbed makeup remover.

Still nothing.

Alcohol. Soap. Nail polish remover.

The mark remained, burned into my skin.

“This isn’t happening,” I whispered, backing away from the mirror.

I didn’t get tattoos. Not randomly. The only one I had was the High Table’s moon emblem on my chest.

So who the hell put this on me?

And more importantly—why couldn’t I remember it?

The next day, I stayed quiet. I didn’t train. I didn’t kill. I just sat at my desk, staring out the window, letting my thoughts hover in the void.

“You look stressed, Fara,” Shiela said, sipping her drink beside me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I answered softly. “Just… thinking.”

It was the truth. No lies for once.

Shiela tilted her head and stood in front of the window, blocking the light. Then she smirked.

Oh no. That smirk.

That meant she was plotting something.

“What?”

“Remember the guy who saved you?” she asked, practically bouncing. “Well, the doctors said he looked like a hot, tan, shirtless model straight out of a magazine. A hunk!”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t exaggerate.”

But she kept going, ranting about chiseled jaws, six-packs, and dreamy eyes.

I half-listened.

But something tugged at my attention.

A shadow.

“Shiela, move.”

“Huh?”

“Just..move.”

She stepped aside.

Outside, standing beneath the shade of a tree across campus, was a girl with pale, dead-looking skin and bright crimson eyes.

She smiled at me.

A chill slid down my spine.

BLOODLUST.

It was faint, but it spiked just enough to trigger my instincts.

“You’ve met her, right?” Shiela said cheerfully.

“That’s Rebecca! She transferred last Friday!”

Friday?

That was the day before my mission.

But I didn’t remember her.

Not a single interaction.

That couldn’t be right. Someone like her—I’d notice.

“She’s pretty,” I muttered absently.

Shiela heard me and practically exploded into giggles.

“She is! And she’s super nice! But kind of mysterious, you know?”

My eyes didn’t leave Rebecca.

Something was off. Her scent. Her presence. Her eyes.

She was hiding something big

And then—

“She’s cold,” I muttered. “She doesn’t even try to blend in.”

Then I blinked.

And Rebecca was gone from the window.

No. Not gone.

Right in front of me.

“Not a fan of small talk, huh?” she said with a smile, her face inches from mine.

I jumped. “How?”

She placed her hand on my shoulder.

Then jerked it back like she touched boiling water.

Her eyes widened. “You’ve been… marked?”

“What?” I said, masking my panic. “You mean this?”

I pulled my collar down just enough for her to glimpse the mark.

Her expression shifted—shocked, then bitter, then amused.

“Ivan, you obsessed bastard.” she muttered under her breath.

“Ivan?” I echoed. “Who’s Ivan?”

She blinked and laughed. “Oh? So you don’t know him. You’ll meet him soon enough. That lonely man doesn’t let go of what he claims.”

And just like that, she walked away.

Leaving more questions than answers.