Chapter 15 – Gummy Bears at 11:30 PM
That same night, Sage Marlowe rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling like it was personally trying to piss him off.
Dusane was quiet — unusually so — no sirens, no tram shrieks, just the low mechanical hum of a city pretending to sleep. But Sage couldn't.
His mind kept spiraling back to Devon.
The argument.
That look in Devon's eyes.
Sage sighed. "I had to," he muttered. Like saying it aloud would make it feel better. It didn't.
He rubbed his face, then his stomach growled. Loud and clear. A new excuse to get out of bed.
A craving.
Gummy bears.
He groaned. "Fine."
He threw on soft gray joggers, a clean white hoodie, and sneakers so white they could signal distress. A spray of cologne — muscle memory. A brush through his hair. House keys. Wallet. Phone.
By 11:30 PM, Sage was walking the slick streets of Dusane, bathed in neon pinks and greens from the bar signs overhead. Rain from earlier still glistened on the pavement.
The air smelled like street noodles and ozone.
A few blocks in, the memory hit:
Dusane Mall.
That day.
Him.
Sage had shoved a guy. Hard. Stolen gummy bears back like a petty king reclaiming his throne. No apologies.
He didn't realize until days later — when Silas Moreau's name came up in classified VCID files — that the man he'd bodied for some Haribos was literally one of Dusane's most dangerous criminals.
He paused in his step, scoffed under his breath. "Of course it was him."
The 24-hour convenience store sat quietly on the corner. Warm lighting. One sleepy-looking cashier in a velvet durag, watching a K-drama on his phone.
Sage walked in. No tension. No dramatics.
Just a clean path to the candy aisle.
His hand landed on the gummy bear pack like it had been waiting for him.
He flipped it. Checked the sugar count like he cared. He didn't.
Paid in cash. Nodded once to the cashier, who nodded back like: "I respect late-night sugar hunts."
Back outside, Sage tore the pack open. First grab?
Cherry.
Of course.
He popped it in anyway.
Dusane moved slow around him — taxis floating by, a tram whispering on rails in the distance, someone arguing on speakerphone two streets over.
And for just a minute…
No Draya.
No Jean-Luc.
No Tina.
No murders.
No Silas Moreau.
Just Sage. A hoodie. And gummy bears.
At 11:30 PM.
★★★★
Time: 11:45 PM
Setting: Dusane Mall Street
The street had simmered into its late-night hush. Neon washed the sidewalk in lazy pinks and blues. The air had that sweet, chemical buzz that always hovered over Dusane after dark.
Sage Marlowe walked out of the 24-hour shop with a ripped-open gummy bear pack in one hand, hoodie on, face unreadable. The candy stuck together from heat, but he didn't care. He wasn't in it for the sugar. Just the act. The taste. Something normal for once.
The night almost passed him by quietly—until the laughter hit.
A gaggle of girls burst onto the scene like a thrown drink. Loud, glittery, perfume thick in the air. He clocked them without turning his head. All heels, designer bags, and barely post-teen drama.
"I told you," one squealed, "Zara's brother is the GOAT. He literally gave us the black card again."
Zara. Center of the chaos. Red minidress, phone in one hand, bubblegum in her mouth. Gold hoops. Eyes glazed. Queen energy without effort. She didn't even flinch when they catcalled from across the street.
Until one of them got close.
Sage saw it in his periphery: some lowlife leaning out of a shadowed alley. Beer on his breath, swagger in his step. Words slurred but still sharp. "Damn girl, you walkin' like you already mine."
Zara didn't blink. "Don't talk to me."
"Oh, you fancy, huh?" He reached. She slapped his hand off.
Then another two stepped out behind him.
Sage didn't drop the gummies. He just moved. Smooth. Quiet. Came up behind the guy and said, "I said back off."
The man turned. "What, you her little bodyguard?"
Then he swung.
Sage dodged. Then cracked him once in the mouth, easy. The guy crumpled. But his boys were already charging.
It got dirty, fast.
Fists. Elbows. One grabbed Sage from behind; the other aimed for his ribs. A knee to the gut folded Sage briefly, but he recovered—fast, brutal. A slam to the wall. Blood in his mouth.
The girls screamed. One started recording. Zara just stood there—heels in hand, frozen.
Then: sirens.
Lights. Flashing. The street went full floodlight as a cruiser screeched up. The attackers scrambled like roaches. Officers jumped out, guns drawn, yelling commands. Zara's friends ran to the sidewalk, crying.
Sage sat on the pavement, breathing heavy, lip bleeding. One officer leaned down. "Knife in that guy's pocket. You're lucky."
He nodded, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Zara stepped forward, quieter now. Her mask had slipped a little. "Hey. You good?"
Sage nodded again, eyes somewhere else. Didn't even look at her.
"Dope punch, though," one of the girls whispered, still shaking.
They loaded him into the ambulance. An EMT taped his wrist and told him to keep his head back.
Zara looked at her friend and whispered, "I mean...he was hot though. Like, soft hot. Hoodie hot."
Sage didn't hear. Or maybe he did. But all he could taste was iron and cheap strawberry sugar.
Still in his hoodie pocket: the gummy bears.
Still unknown to him: the girl he saved was Zara Moreau.
Still unknown to her: the man who threw that punch would one day aim a gun at her brother.
★★★★★★
LILY ESTATE — THAT NIGHT — 11:47 PM
Tap tap.
Silas didn't flinch.
He stood in the hallway, pistol raised, steady as steel, aimed right at Margret's chest. She was still in her black jogging gear, breathing shallow from the run she never got to finish—hair tied back, sweat drying cold on her skin. Her fitness tracker was still glowing red, heart rate spiking.
From behind clenched teeth, Silas whispered, "Not a sound."
Margret gave the smallest nod.
The knocking came again. Three soft taps. Too polite. Too familiar.
Silas turned and vanished into the dim hallway like mist—his footsteps silent, posture relaxed, gun disappearing into the folds of the robe he'd slipped on. In the darkness, he pulled a gold chain from his pocket and looped it around his knuckles like habit.
"Answer it," he said, voice low and even. "And smile."
Margret exhaled like she might never again, then pulled open the door.
Standing outside was Quinn.
Not in a suit this time—just dark jeans, a bomber jacket, and a tired expression. Her brows immediately lifted at the sight of Margret.
"Ma'am," Quinn said slowly. "You good? Been trying to reach you all day."
"Oh, hi! Yes—sorry, my phone died," Margret said, too fast. Her voice tried to sound breezy, but cracked halfway through. "I went jogging. You know, needed to clear my head. What brings you here so late?"
Quinn's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You look… out of breath," she said.
"I—I just got back," Margret replied, her smile shaking. "Come in for tea? I was literally just putting the kettle on."
There was a long pause.
Quinn hesitated. The night air pressed at her back. Something about Margret's body language wasn't syncing. She was standing like someone holding back a scream.
"I really shouldn't—" Quinn started.
"Oh, just five minutes," Margret insisted, her hand twitching at her side.
Against every shred of gut instinct… Quinn stepped inside
---
The door clicked shut behind her.
Inside, the house was dim and too still. A single lamp burned in the far corner, casting everything in soft gold and long, shapeless shadows.
And then—
"Evening."
A man stepped out from the hallway.
Robe. Damp hair. Slippers. A glass of whiskey in his hand like he just wandered out of bed.
Quinn's stomach turned.
He looked ordinary. He looked… wrong.
Margret gave a weak smile. "Quinn, this is my husband."
The man tilted his head, smiling with no teeth. "Nice to finally meet you. Heard a lot about the team."
Quinn stared at him, trying to place the face. Something about his posture, the cold neutrality behind his eyes. Like someone playing house, but the game didn't fit.
He moved like he had a knife in his spine and liked it.
"You look familiar," Quinn said slowly, stepping toward the little dining table across from the kitchen.
"I get that a lot," he said, voice low, unreadable. "Must be one of those faces."
He sat across from her, calm and still—but his hands never left the table. Margret shuffled toward the kitchen behind her, hands trembling as she grabbed two mugs and poured the boiling water.
Quinn's eyes never left the man.
Then it hit her—like a punch straight through memory.
The eyes.
That jaw.
That voice.
The chain around his wrist—looped lazily, like he wasn't even trying to hide it.
Not her husband.
Not even close.
Silas Moreau.
The ghost of Zayne McQueen's rooftop. The name whispered through every blood-drenched crime scene she and Sage had dissected. The man they couldn't catch on tape—but now sat across from her with his legs crossed like he owned the world.
In the kitchen, Margret turned. Face pale. Eyes glassy.
She held a mug in each hand, but her knees were shaking. Her lip quivered.
She didn't speak.
She just looked at Quinn…
…and mouthed the word:
Run.
Click.
The sound of a safety pin disengaged.
Silas raised the pistol beneath the table—and fired....
To be continued