Chapter 2: Etched in Mystery

A tattoo—small but intricate—etched just below my skin. The infinity symbol, its delicate lines looping and intertwining seamlessly, radiated a sense of endless continuity. It was beautiful but haunting. A chill ran down my spine as I lightly traced the design with my fingers. My skin tingled at the touch, as if the mark carried some latent energy.

“Why do I have the same tattoo as the young boy’s mom?” I whispered under my breath. My voice sounded foreign, trembling with a mix of disbelief and fear. Gently, I pressed the area around the mark, hoping for some kind of answer, but all I got was silence and the faint hum of the morning. Anxiety bubbled inside me. Was this some bizarre coincidence, or was there something more sinister at play? The memory of the boy’s mother flashed through my mind. Her smile had been kind, yet there was something about her presence that had lingered, like a shadow that refused to fade.

The sound of my door slamming open shattered my thoughts.

“Anne!” my youngest brother, Helix, burst into the room, his energy hitting me like a tidal wave. He was dressed in his usual chaos—an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks, and his ever-present mischievous grin. His brown hair stuck up in unruly tufts, and his ash-gray eyes sparkled with humor. “Wow, you look like crap,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe like a little prince surveying his kingdom.

I glared at him. “Thanks for the confidence boost, Helix. Really needed that.”

He shrugged, unbothered by my sarcasm. “Just saying. You look like you wrestled a bear in your sleep and lost. I could draw it for you if you want—illustrate the epic battle.”

I rolled my eyes, pushing him toward the door. “Out. Now.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, laughing as he backed out. “You’re no fun.” His laugh was infectious, and I found myself smiling despite the knot of worry in my chest. Helix had always been the troublemaker in our family. Growing up, he lived to prank us—switching my shampoo for glitter, replacing my alarm tone with a screaming goat, or hiding my homework. Yet, in his own way, he had a knack for making even the darkest days feel lighter.

Before I could shut the door, Henry, our middle brother, appeared, his posture stiff and composed as always. His jet-black hair was combed back perfectly, and his sharp, dark eyes scanned the scene dispassionately. “The average recommended sleep for teenagers is eight to ten hours per night,” he said without preamble. “You’re clearly not meeting that benchmark, Anne.”

“Thanks, Henry,” I said dryly. “Did you come all the way here just to tell me I look tired?”

“Yes,” he replied, completely serious. “You’re welcome.”

“What’s going on?” Allyson’s groggy voice joined the fray. She shuffled down the hallway, rubbing her ash-blue eyes. Her silver hair was a tangled mess, and her usually calm expression was marred by a sleepy frown. As the eldest, she was often the mediator of our chaos, the one who kept us from killing each other.

“Nothing important,” I snapped, stepping back into my room and shutting the door. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain my siblings’ banter, not with the tattoo burning in my thoughts. Their voices faded as I moved around the room, gathering my things for school. The mark on my shoulder remained a constant weight on my mind, its presence unnervingly familiar and utterly alien at the same time.

Downstairs, breakfast was its usual solemn affair. My father sat at the head of the table, his long black hair tied back neatly. His muscular build and stern demeanor radiated authority, though his eyes rarely met ours. Across from him, my mother sipped her tea, her ash-blond hair pulled into a flawless bun. She wore the same distant expression she always had, as if her mind was somewhere else entirely.

We didn’t talk much during meals. It wasn’t that they were cruel or demanding; they just didn’t ask questions. They never pressured us about grades or interrogated us about our lives. But they also didn’t know about the secrets we kept, the things we’d endured, or the truths we’d discovered. And deep down, I doubted they’d want to know.

I ate quickly, my thoughts preoccupied with the tattoo. It loomed in my mind, an enigma I couldn’t escape. By the time I left the house, I was practically vibrating with unease.

The train station was unusually quiet. The usual chatter of morning commuters was muted, replaced by an eerie stillness. I stepped onto the train and immediately noticed something was off. The car was empty—completely empty. The usual crush of bodies and muffled conversations was gone, leaving only silence and flickering overhead lights.

I slid into a seat, clutching my bag tightly. My eyes darted around, scanning the shadows for any sign of life. The emptiness pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. Then, at the far end of the car, I spotted a familiar figure. Dale.

Dale is like the school's heartthrob, catching every girl's eye with his tall frame, fair skin, captivating eyes, smooth voice, and physique that could make anyone do a double take. But, just to be clear, that doesn't include me. Now, I'm bringing up Dale because every girl falling for his charm becomes my sworn enemy. Dale and I go way back, not in a romantic way, though. We're neighbors, classmates, and childhood buddies, I guess. It's hard to put a label on what Dale and I are. And it's weird; whenever I'm in trouble, he shows up like my personal superhero, saves the day, and then ghosts me like it's no big deal. Besides those random heroic moments, we don't talk much.

“Mmm, this is awkward,” I muttered, sneaking a glance at him. He had his headphones on, bobbing his head to a beat I couldn’t hear.

I considered waving, but before I could, the train lurched to a stop, and the lights flickered ominously. A chill crept over me as a cloaked figure appeared at the far end of the car.

My breath hitched. The figure’s movements were slow but deliberate, each step echoing like a death knell. My pulse thundered in my ears as I instinctively moved back. Dale, noticing my distress, grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him.

The air grew thick, and glittering dust began to swirl around us. My eyelids grew heavy, the world tilting as the figure raised an arm.

The last thing I saw before darkness consumed me was Dale’s protective stance, his broad shoulders shielding me.

I woke to the sharp sting of a book smacking my head.

"Anne!" my teacher’s voice snapped. "See me in my office after class."

I blinked, disoriented, finding myself back in the classroom. My heart raced as I tried to process what had happened. Was it all a dream? My skin felt clammy, and my limbs were heavy, as though I’d run a marathon.

Across the room, Dale sat at his desk, calm and focused, as though nothing had happened.

As I gathered my things, the memory of the cloaked figure lingered, vivid and unsettling. Was it just a dream, or something more?