The next morning, Coldmark woke under grey skies. The city looked like it had forgotten how to shine, and maybe that was fair. It had forgotten how to be safe.
Mia sat at the back of the school library, flipping through a history textbook she didn't care about. Her thoughts were elsewhere. On him.
Dre.
There was something off about him. Not in the "he's weird" way. More like… he knew things. Like he'd seen darkness and had chosen to walk into it again and again.
When she saw him walk into school that morning, wearing his usual calm like it was part of his uniform, she stood.
"Wait," she said, stepping into his path.
Dre paused, looking at her.
"You're not here for school, are you?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer right away. "Are any of us?"
Mia frowned. "No. I mean it. You're moving like you've got plans."
"I always have plans," Dre replied. "You just noticed."
She stepped closer. "What happened to you? You used to be... different."
"Then life taught me," Dre said simply. "Now I'm teaching it back."
---
Meanwhile, in a small downtown bar with locked windows, three men sat around a table. One of them was Malik, the corrupted customs officer Dre had been tracking.
He leaned back, smug. "Shipment moves at 3 a.m. tonight. No checks. No questions. The city's blind."
The man across from him was older, with a scar over one eye. Mendez, a top lieutenant of the Eastside cartel.
"Good," Mendez said. "But we hear someone's been making noise. Three of our people gone."
Malik laughed. "A ghost. No name. No face. You think some kid is going to shake our network?"
Mendez didn't laugh. He leaned forward. "Ghosts don't warn. They just haunt."
---
At the same time, Dre was in the school's computer lab. Kross had emailed him footage—Malik's bar meeting, recorded from a hidden mic. Dre listened, eyes scanning the waveforms, every detail etched into memory.
Mia entered the lab quietly.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Dre didn't turn. "Finishing something."
She sat beside him, curious. "You're not normal, are you?"
Dre smiled faintly. "That's the kindest thing anyone's said to me this week."
Mia looked serious. "You're playing with dangerous people."
"I'm not playing," Dre said. "I'm cleaning up the mess they made."
Mia shook her head. "Why not tell the police?"
"They already know," Dre answered. "They're just scared to admit it."
---
That night, Malik exited the bar and got into his car. His driver never spoke. Malik assumed he was new.
But halfway through the drive, the man locked the doors and took a sharp turn into an alley.
"What the—" Malik started, reaching for his phone.
The driver turned. It wasn't a man.
It was Kara, one of Dre's newest allies—ex-gang, fast hands, sharp tongue.
"Malik," she said coldly. "Time's up."
Malik panicked, tried to open the door—but it was sealed.
A voice came through the car speaker.
"You launder money. Move guns. Help killers. Tonight, you'll see what judgment looks like."
Dre's voice.
---
Back in Coldmark, Detective Imani stood at another crime scene.
Malik's body was slumped behind the wheel. Unmarked. Peaceful.
But on his forehead, drawn in black ink:
"Four down. More to come."
Daniels muttered, "This guy's escalating."
Imani nodded. "He's not just punishing them. He's delivering a message."