Chapter 5: "Echoes of Marcus" Julian POV

I’m still walking, boots pounding the pavement, that creepy call ringing in my ears. The alley’s behind me now, but the streets are just as empty—dark, quiet, Vegas winding down before dawn. My breath’s fogging up in the chilly air, and my head’s a mess. “Ask him what he buried,” that voice said, all warped and spooky. Marcus’s past. Debts. Secrets. It’s got me rattled, and I can’t shake it. I need answers, but I don’t even know where to start.

I stop under a flickering streetlamp, hands shoved in my pockets, and lean against the pole. My eyes close, and my mind drifts back—way back, to when I first met Marcus. Five years ago, I’d just landed in Vegas, a skinny Brit with a duffel bag and a busted heart. Family in London had chucked me out for coming out—called me a disgrace, told me to sod off. I was lost, sleeping on benches, till Marcus found me. He was different then—rougher round the edges, but kind. Secretive smiles, quick glances over his shoulder, like he was watching for something. I’d catch him muttering to himself, stuff I couldn’t hear, and he’d brush it off with a grin. “Old habits,” he’d say, and I never pushed. Thought it was just him being him.

Now, those memories feel off. Furtive glances, hushed phone calls he’d take outside the flat—I’d dismissed it all back then. He’d come back in, ruffle my hair, and say, “Don’t worry, Jules.” I didn’t. I trusted him. But after that call—“Some secrets are better left buried”—those little things hit different. Was he hiding something? Something dangerous? My chest tightens, and I open my eyes, staring at the cracked pavement. I don’t want to think it, but I can’t help it.

I start moving again, heading nowhere, just walking to keep my head straight. The flat’s out of the question—can’t face Marcus yet, not after he doubted me. I end up at a bus stop, one of those sad little shelters with a bench and a busted light. It’s empty, and I sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My jacket’s thin, and the cold’s creeping in, but I don’t care. I need to think.

My fingers brush the voucher in my pocket, and I pull it out—crumpled, five grand in casino scrip. Marcus gave it to me like it was nothing, but Claire’s voice cuts in again: “Five grand for that Brit, while Ethan’s dying.” Maybe it wasn’t nothing to him. Maybe it was everything—some old debt he was settling, something tied to whatever he buried. I shove it back in, frustrated, and my hand hits something else—my keys. The flat keys. And suddenly, I know where I’m going.

It’s a dumb idea, but I’m past caring. I catch a late bus, one of the rattly ones that stink of stale beer, and ride it back toward our place. The streets blur past, all shadows and neon, till I’m at our building—a rundown block with peeling paint and a busted buzzer. I let myself in, quiet as I can, and climb the stairs. Marcus might be there, but I’m hoping he’s still at the casino, sorting the mess I left behind.

The flat’s dark when I get in, just the hum of the fridge and the glow of a streetlight through the blinds. I flick on a lamp, and it’s the same old mess—empty beer cans, my boots by the door, Marcus’s jacket slung over the sofa. Feels like home, but it doesn’t tonight. I lock the door behind me and start poking around, not sure what I’m after. Answers, maybe. Something to make sense of that call.

I head to the bedroom—ours now, since three weeks ago—and dig through the wardrobe. Marcus’s side’s a jumble of shirts and jeans, but there’s a box at the bottom, shoved under a pile of socks. I pull it out, heart thudding. It’s old, cardboard edges worn, taped shut like he didn’t want it opened. I hesitate, then rip it free with my keys, spilling stuff onto the bed—papers, receipts, a couple of old casino chips.

Then I see it—a faded photo, tucked under a crumpled letter. I pick it up, hands shaky, and squint at it in the dim light. It’s Marcus, younger, maybe late twenties, standing outside some dive bar. He’s got that secretive smile, arm around a bloke I don’t know—tall, dark hair, looking off to the side like he’s nervous. There’s a date scribbled on the corner—March 2018—and a location: “Reno.” Seven years back, before I knew him. My stomach flips. Who’s this guy? Why’s Marcus look so cagey?

I flip the photo over, and my breath catches. There’s writing on the back, faint, scratched in pen: “What did you know?” It’s barely legible, like someone wrote it in a hurry, but it hits me like a punch. Marcus’s past—debts, the call said. This photo’s part of it, I can feel it. That bloke, the date, the place—it’s not just some old snap. It’s a clue, and it’s dark. Was Marcus mixed up in something bad? Something that got someone hurt? Killed, even? The thought makes me sick, but I can’t shake it. His secretive smiles, those glances—I didn’t see it then, but now it’s screaming at me. This isn’t just about Claire and Victor. It’s bigger, uglier.

I sit on the bed, photo in hand, staring at Marcus’s face. He looks happy there, but off, like he’s hiding something. “What did you know?” it says, and it’s haunting me now. Did he know something that got him in deep? Something that’s coming back now, through me? My head’s spinning, and I don’t hear the flat—don’t hear anything—just that question, over and over. What did he know? What’s he buried? And why’s it crashing down on us now?

I don’t have answers, just this faded picture and a gut full of dread. The lamp flickers, casting shadows, and I’m stuck there, holding it, knowing I’ve got to find out. Whatever Marcus knew, whatever he hid, it’s not dead. It’s alive, and it’s coming for us.