Lunchtime at the diner. Mark curved a smile as he smelled the beef steak on his plate, grabbing the fork and knife.

Today was a special day. Jordan somehow convinced him for a hang out at night and promised for the tenth time he wasn't going to leave him. For a couple of hours at least.

A lie, easily detected, but he needed the distraction. His week had gone for stress more than fun itself at the job.

Since Tuesday, she hadn't returned for her caffeine daily dose. He grew tired of keeping his gaze on the door, expecting her to pass by.

His eyes only got disappointment.

The few blonde customers he had were Russians, whom he treated like everybody else, and even had to intervene when the usual pervert old man tried his luck. Luckily, this obese guy, insulting him as a traitor, couldn't endure a single punch, unlike... others. Bad Hawaii memories.

After a long time of routine, she broke it off. Why? Did he scare her? She didn't seem to be the fearful type, though. Or anything. Her expressionlessness covered her well.

A cold feeling lingered to Mark's heart. Jordan noticed that visiting the store, and told him what didn't want to hear, but needed anyway.

"That's what you get for waiting too long, Marky."

He shrugged as answer. Missing her? For just four days? Of course not.

The ghost of her smile faded as he did his best to avoid the thought.

Suddenly, Mark tasted something sour in his mouth and gulped. Stupid memory paradox.

"This is the weekend, OUR weekend in Nightride FM, where the real hits rule! It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in paradise on earth Miami! Nothing can go wrong with such gorgeous weather! I'm Rick, and in the next hour we'll be featuring the greatest hits of all time, with no commercials! Midnight Riders, Phil Collins, Love Fist, and more, with our newest revelation Perturbator! Less talk, more music! Rock on! "

The diner didn't seem busy.

Two tables away, a couple had lunch chatting occasionally, and a young man with a goatee had a drink near the waitress at the bar, hitting on her. She politely had denied his advances, but kept her eyes on him, listening with a smirk on her face.

Pity or actual success, Mark drank a couple of sips of his lemonade.

He had the habit to observe, since his lonely lunches would be dull if he did otherwise. Jordan sometimes joined, when work didn't strictly need his assistance.

Even so, the detective rarely had canceled a planned lunch with such lame excuse.

"I've got work to do. See ya later."

So short and without complaints. Then he continued:

"Tonight, of course. A drink after this shitty shift wouldn't hurt."

"Fine." Mark answered and ended the call.

The events of the past days got the local police station upside down, so Jordan probably was busy up to the neck with paperwork.

Mark took another piece of steak to his mouth. At least now the taste matched its smell.

He had no plans for the afternoon, apart from continuing working with the circuits and cables of a wrecked TV.

His plans for the afternoon were none, apart from a damaged TV he had to fix. The other neighbor hadn't paid him for the NES yet, but she invited Mark a piece of birthday cake every once in a while, so he didn't mind, for now.

A bald man wearing an aquamarine shirt walked into the establishment, carrying his white dress jacket over his shoulder. Unlike the others dressed just like him, his skin was tanned, and his hairless face showed a quite normal expression, instead of the confident smug of a gang in their turf.

As soon as his presence got noticed, the atmosphere became heavier and more tense. Even the goatee guy at the bar interrupted his sweet talk and turned to the entrance.

The bald man barely paid any attention to the rude customers, and turned around to the entrance. A dark-haired woman, also tanned, entered and locked her arm into his.

Unlike him, she wore casual clothes. A pair of jeans, a colorful top, and a pair of heels, echoing on the floor with every step she took. When the others noticed her, the air began to flow again. The new couple passed by Mark, who glanced at them briefly, before returning to his food.

They looked like a newly made and cheerful couple, judging from her laughs and his shy smile.

The bar waitress reduced the volume of the radio, and one of her coworkers quickly went to attend the couple. Her voice trembled as she spoke, resembling a stammer.

Mark tasted another piece of steak. He wasn't fond of the rice beside, but he still needed the calories for the day. His espresso-based breakfast didn't say otherwise.

He didn't mind the situation. An innocent couple on date was nothing compared to armed mobsters coercing Mike's store for payment. Even if the bald wore the symbol of the Russian mafia on his suit.

Mark's mind started to fly again.

Perhaps it was time to use the old reliable, and go for a new jacket at Gash in the shopping mall. Tonight could be the night he met a girl as boring as him and finally feel the 'love connection' in silence.

Huh. Dreaming doesn't cost a thing.

A blonde entered the diner. Mark glanced at her, trying to get as much rice as possible on his fork. She was apparently talking to someone upon entering. A young man followed her. He was bald, too.

Mark snorted. He didn't know how that haircut became a trend at this time of the year.

The new bald guy had blond eyebrows. They moved along his eyes, as he inspected the place, but his companion quickly drew him to a nearby table.

"Another couple." Mark muttered, before getting the fork into his mouth.

However, he caught a glimpse of her face, interrupting his mumbling. It was her. His fork silently fell on top of the rice.

So all his hopes were on someone already taken?

"... Mark will be arriving from Savannah today too. God knows why he decided to come here, but it'll be a good excuse to get the gang together like old times."

"Mark? You mean the crazy fella who used akimbo guns?"

"Yeah, that one. I thought you liked him. I dunno anything about Tony and Corey yet, so I believe they'll still be in Atlanta. They don't answer any call, so..."

His face twitched at the mention of his name on her lips, but his gaze was fixed on his food, already getting cold. Of course it wasn't about him. His aim dropped to zero when he tried akimbo weapons, even with pistols.

The waitress, who had served the Russian and his girlfriend, went to serve them too. Although she was still nervous, she kept her composure while taking the order.

"And how have you been?"

"Eh, shitty enough. Finding a job over there was a complete nightmare, I just hope it's better here."

"You gave Beverly a good excuse, right?"

"You'll never call her 'mom' again, huh?"

"Yeah. As long as she doesn't come here we'll get along just fine."

"'Mom'? What?" Mark frowned a bit, and leaned forward, putting both elbows on his table.

"She misses you, Al. At least try answering the phone."

"Uh huh. What do you think we need for the little gather today? Besides deary Bonnie?"

So, 'Al' was her name. 'Al' what? Allison? Allie? Alexandra? Mark couldn't believe his goal was being completed without him moving a muscle.

Even so, his progress stood in a rounded zero, and didn't give signs of increasing, with him staring at the back of her messy ponytail.

Plus, who the hell was Bonnie?

"That thing's got a name now? Terrific." The bald snickered, shaking his head. "Hmmm, a tower of pizzas and a six pack of beers will do the trick. The big guy likes cheap stuff, unlike others."

"Huh. About that, get a job asap. You won't live off me this time, not in MY place."

"What? It's our house."

"Oh, yeah? I paid the fucking debt Dad left on it. So think twice what you do, unless you want me to kick your sorry ass out."

"Tch, as soon as I get a job we'll share expenses, 'kay?"

"You better. I don't need a useless parasite." Al raised her voice. "How's the order going? I'm hungry!"

"Uh, about lunch, do you mind...?"

"Broke already?" She sneered, making her brother frown his lips. "Fine, but don't get used to it."

Mark crushed a piece of steak with the fork, making its juice drip out to the plate. Was she smiling? Was she scolding? Was she showing any expression apart from her unnatural and never-ending sorrow?

He took the crushed and two more pieces inside his mouth, and chewed, slowly and focused.

They continued talking after the waitress brought their food, the service way slower than the tanned bald and his companion.

Mark didn't miss any detail. Their family, their 'outstanding and bitchy' mother, a passed away relative and the shitty technician job her brother had.

Every time the conversation reached any stuff related to her, she dodged the question, mentioning a certain Corey, or whatever else she could think of, like the news of the massacres. Her brother grinned at the topic, and started whispering and chuckling with her.

Mark couldn't catch more than loose words without looking suspicious, though he doubted anyone would notice if he changed places at his lonely table.

The idea got discarded quickly. Did he really need to know?

Instead, he took out a single bill from his wallet, put it below the empty vase of lemonade, and stood up.

On his walk to the exit, he subtly glanced at Al. She barely minded him, attentive to her brother. Her expression hadn't changed from the usual, but her cheeks had regained some color.

Mark turned forward and pushed the door. The sunrays fortunately hadn't turned his car into an oven. Before continuing with the day, he drove around South Beach. The sight of the young women, showing more skin as the temperature rose, was always welcome.

Gash's men section was deserted, on the second floor of the mall. Only the weird-postured cashier watched from afar, afraid of him being a robber or something like that.

Mark didn't blame him. For some people his scar made him look like a criminal rather than a veteran.

His search ended in a black leather jacket, draped over a mannequin. He didn't like the complete outfit at all, being biker style, and nothing would ever make him wear boots and a bandana, for fashion purposes only.

He hasn't ridden a motorcycle since his teen ages, but both jacket and gloves suited him well.

At least that's what the shop assistant said when she came up from the first floor. With Mark alone in there, he ended being the target of the girl's skills of verbal persuasion.

He listened, turning his view from the mirror to her, being one of the few moments that someone other than his mother or Jordan called him handsome.

To return the favor, he decided on buying both and put an end to her incessant words.

The man with glasses at the cash register kept looking at him as he approached. His pupils searched for a hidden gun that didn't exist.

Perhaps the mob had already paid a visit, so Mark assumed the man was already traumatized.

He paid avoiding the exchange of words, immediately putting the amount of money the price tag specified on the counter. The cashier didn't even have time to open his mouth, because as soon as he handed over the purchase, Mark turned and headed for the exit.

"Thanks for coming!" He heard the girl's voice. She was folding the pants and the bandana he refused to buy.

Mark felt warmth build up in his chest and go straight to his cheeks. He was about to give her a grateful gaze, and realized she possibly said that to all the potential buyers.

A gust of conditioned air blew his neck on the outside, as he went out, ignoring her.

He slowly ambled to the car, checking the fingerless gloves and putting them back inside the bag. If it happened like in the movies, women would come after him for having such a bad boy's look.

The only thing missing was the body spray from the huge billboards. If he used that, along the bad boy stuff, tonight could be a vivid wet dream, or his worst nightmare. It all depended on the perspective.

He passed beside the Miami Beach police station, where Jordan 'burned what little he had left of his youth'. Mark got there once, when he managed to knock out a daring youngster who tried to rob on his shift at the store armed with a penknife.

The officers had no idea on which side to get, because veterans had the repeating pattern of provoking fights in public places, especially with foreigners. If Mike didn't have prior friendship with Jordan, probably Mark would've ended up imprisoned for several nights.

Free from any charge, the least Mark could do as thanks was buying him a drink. Considering he spent barely any money on food, aside from rent and gasoline, it didn't hurt to have some extra expense. The absurd alcohol tolerance of the mad Texan caught him off guard.

Mark arrived home. The light-blue sky forecasted a clear night, unless the clouds suddenly betrayed the nice weather.

Climbing the last step of stairs to the second floor, he noticed a sealed cardboard box in front of his door. He sped up his pace to see what it was. Perhaps the mailman had the wrong address. Again.

A couple of packing tape strips sealed it, forming a cross. It had no remitter, neither letter, nothing on it.

Picking it up, he realized its lightness, and the two flat sounds it made when shaken, along with papers crumpling.

He was going to open it right there with his key, but his next-door neighbor came out just then.

"Hello Mark."

Alarmed, he looked at him with wide eyes. The man wore dark pants, but the same shirt color as the Russian mafia clothing.

"You okay? Seems I found you at a bad time."

He relaxed his shoulders a bit and blinked, then nodded.

"Oh. Um, this is the money I owed you, thanks."

He reached for the bill, though he had no idea how much the debt really was.

"See you around." The man jogged to the stairwell and disappeared from sight.

Inside his apartment, Mark carried the box to his work table. A disassembled TV and several components were on top, but he made space between them. Before he opened it, a flash of yellow light in the corner of his living room interrupted him.

A message on the answering machine. He wasn't expecting anyone to call him today, unless it was another advertisement, so he got ready to hang up if he heard any excited voice other than his mother's.

"You got ONE new message."

Instead, a male voice he didn't know spoke.

"Hey, mate! This is Paul. I found us a little job at East 7th Street. Come right away! The owners are paying extra if we finish painting before the night."

Mark frowned as he listened. His painting skills were far too low to be considered for a job he didn't apply to.

"Be sure to bring the tools I left for you. Remember, apartment 205. Catch you later!"

One click determined the end of the message. He hung up the phone, convinced that the caller got it wrong. However, being called 'mate' unsettled him a bit. Not many spoke like that in Miami.

If he remembered correctly, that address was near the slums of the city, where the eternal rivalry of foreign criminal gangs reigned. Did they have something to do with him? Why? Some slum lord in the need for a bodyguard?

With many questions on his mind, he went for the box.

Opening it entirely, he took out a raccoon mask, furry to the touch, and a can of red spray.

When he tried to examine them, he noticed three papers underneath. One had words written on it, other had a strange symbol drawn, and the remaining was blank.

Setting the way too early Halloween costume aside, Mark read the note.

"Tagging is your mission. Our symbol, your deliver. Discretion is of essence. Failure isn't an option. We'll be watching you. "

He heard the voice of his superior in Honolulu giving him another order. Even though he was back on the pills, he was once again convincing himself that they were doing absolutely nothing.

One circle and three lines across, all in red. It didn't seem complicated. But what did they really want? A paint job, and that's it?

He had the address. The place could be dangerous, but he could try. Tagging in a gang turf, entertainment assured, as long as the police and bullets didn't interfere.

Nothing compelled him, though. Were 'they' watching him? Who? Why? He had nothing to offer. His own life, perhaps. Nothing made it worth living anyway. Besides a vague thought about his job, something in particular.

"You little…"

They could even send a threat to Mike, but Mark doubted they would do so, with the protection of the mob. Despite their shitty traits, those lowlifes protected their businesses.

He chose to shrug off. The mailman must have had the wrong address, and the caller the wrong phone number. So much coincidence in one day, but possible.

His shift was still a couple of hours away. Leaving his new jacket hanging in his closet, and the box on top of his discarded couch aside, he went back to work on the TV.

Nothing rushed him, so he turned on the radio and began to hum along with it.

The fan was vibrating slightly. Mark, ever silent, now checking the chassis voltages. Several circuits were messed up, hardly receiving any power and therefore not letting the TV turn on. Its replacements would be expensive, as the electronic sported a quite rare brand.

He decided to stop there and tell the owner he better buy a new one. Asian products were on the rise in electronic stores, and relatively cheap.

Mark pushed the chair backwards and stood up, and remembered its owner was the neighbor that just left.

Anyway, he got too lazy to put the TV back together, so he left its parts scattered across his table. Tomorrow he'd have the entire day to do it, even with the movie marathon he had planned.

A nap before going to Mike's could never go wrong. Tonight hopefully would be a long night, so he needed the energy. Setting an alarm just in case, he sank his face onto his pillow.

Mark opened his eyes. Dusk's weak lighting entered through the windows. Alarmed, right after putting on the nearest hoodie, he looked for his shoes in the dark, finding them within two steps, and stretched his left arm to turn on light.

His first time slacking off, and unwittingly.

After the bulb's last blink, he saw a trail of blood marks on the rug, ending in the closed bathroom. Many red stained clothes littered the space beside its door.

Another light blinked weakly, coming from the living room. Mark heard a subtle sigh, and tensed his fist. He rushed to his nightstand and put out his trusty combat knife. Using it was his last resort, but he hated robbers.

Breath now controlled, enough wariness to react upon a sudden movement and ready to throw his knife if he saw any type of firearm. Even if he was out of practice, a well-placed strike with its handle could knock anyone out.

The discarded couch was now in the middle of the living room. A man sat on top cross-legged, lounging with his arms stretched over its back. As Mark narrowed his eyes to see him clearly, the light above him became intermittent.

"Nice place you got here. It's been a while, isn't it?"

A shudder ran through his back, but Mark regained his grip instantly, agitating his head. He raised the knife up to his chin and scowled to the figure.

"You don't recognize me, huh? Allow me to refresh your mind." The man snapped his fingers, stopping the flicker of the light.

Mark saw himself, like a mirror image. His reflection wore his military clothing, stained by dirt and wounds, with a notable dark reddish spot on his vest.

His mildly bruised face sneered, letting fall a drip of blood from his cheek to his chin.

"Keeping on with the silence. I see you haven't changed."

"Why are you here?"

"The question is why are YOU here. Is this worth your life? Better yet, is this worth their lives?"

"..."

"Soon all will be different. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. I want to see how this plays out."

"..."

"Perhaps you even do the right thing this time."

"Nhh..."

Mark's body began to feel heavy. The knife he was carrying fell from his hand.

He bent to pick it up, staggering in the process and falling to his knee, unable to stand up. Each of his scars began to ache, like fresh wounds.

"The armor you made. The façade you've worked on. It's pointless. You, heh, WE know what you really are."

His knife suddenly was soaked in blood, and his sleeves turned to a dark reddish color.

The pain increased, remarkably in his left arm, his main support from falling entirely. The weight of his body became unbearable.

"Wake up. Pain won't end until you do. See you around, Mute. "

His nerves stopped responding, and the biceps gave in, making Mark bite the dust.

The light started flickering again. Mark's reflection stared at him, as the latter rolled his face cheek down, returning the gaze with one eye.

It intertwined its hands, with each elbow on each thigh, appreciating his suffering. The smirk on its face had vanished.

Darkness swarmed the room, consuming every trace of light. Mark exchanged one last glance with his mirror image, until it lost form.

He forced a blink and awoke from his slumber, feeling his leg cramped and stinging.

Apparently it had been stretched out and suspended midair during his nap. Various parts of his body were still throbbing, especially the scarred ones. Without much hesitation, he grabbed the pills from his nightstand and swallowed a couple. The placebo effect worked at least.

He limped to the bathroom, and watched himself in the mirror. Sunrays still illuminated the room through the window, but chills trailed through his limbs, making him shiver.

His skin looked normal, and his scars too. He shook his head and entered the shower. Another nightmare wouldn't spoil the rest of his day.

He got changed into brand new clothes, even though those were reduced to the black jacket with the gloves, along his trusty pair of jeans and shoes.

Mark looked at the clock. Even if it wasn't a few minutes before half past four, he would have gone to the store. Here at his apartment, he sensed uneasiness in the air, and the image of his dream didn't leave his mind.

Locking his door on his way out, he saw a man dressed all in green in the corridor. He carried a mop and a bucket of water at his side.

Mark jerked his head back, incredulous. Finally, after so many years, the landlady thought of hiring someone to clean the place thoroughly. He greeted the worker with a slight nod as he walked past him.

The janitor wore an awkward grin. He didn't return the greeting, just stared at Mark.

The ex-soldier preferred to avoid eye contact and headed to his car as quickly as possible. He felt uncomfortable enough already.

Mark had just attended and helped a lady pushing her shopping cart with bags to her car. He mostly did it out of pity, seeing how two tiny demons destroyed the poor woman's youth.

His own mother came to memory, whom he had just called from the store's phone. The conversation didn't last long, he just wanted to know how she was doing, despite her automatically figuring something was wrong, and demanded an explanation.

He evaded the question, using work as an excuse. The chills made his determination falter.

Mike had also left without giving him a chance to talk.

Anyways, at least the store gave Mark some peace. His own apartment at this time was a strange land.

"If you stay quiet while mom does the shopping, she'll buy you chocolate!"

Mark smiled, turning the page of the comic he was reading. Old tactic, but effective.

Minutes later he would see them go, the two fighting over a single chocolate bar they didn't intend to share, but reluctantly had to. In any case, the woman had gotten the peace she needed to think.

Time crawled to a snail's pace. With the radio playing beside him, he noticed a five-minute long song somehow fitting in three minutes of real time. Maybe the clock was running out of batteries, or he got inside a time dilation sci-fi stuff.

Either way, he had bought several editions of his comic, so as long as he read them slowly, everything would be fine.

A fat man raging over a huge bag of chips' price, two girls with tiny tops and nicely-shown cleavages trying in vain to get discounts on alcohol, and the usual kid with a fake ID, whom Mark scared away by just taking off his jacket.

They were getting way dumber when making up names, or maybe he just didn't know many McLovins out there.

As soon as the obvious highschooler ran out of the store, he put on the jacket again, despite the heat of the environment.

The daylight outside turned more orange as the sun fell, but still far from the pink of dusk.

"It's 5:47 pm on Nightride FM! Less talk, more music!"

The little bell rang. Mark's eyes turned to the door and his heart skipped a beat.

Al, the blonde girl, walked into the store, with her bald brother beside. Unexpectedly, a burly man entered after them. He had long hair, with a grown beard and mustache. Pretty much like a fat lumberjack.

Unlike the other two, he didn't have a gloomy sadness on his face.

The two guys went straight to the alcohol area, leaving her alone in the candy area. She picked up lollipops, chocolates, cookies, gummy bears and almost every item, examined them, and left them in place.

Mark rested his cheek on his hand. Pretending to read wouldn't serve him much, but he had to try.

"Hey, Mark!" Her call out didn't go melodious in the least, making him startle.

His lost warmth returned instantly. He didn't know whether to answer, because she hadn't addressed anyone in particular. Her eyes still were on the candies.

"Yes?" The long-haired man replied. He carried a six pack of beer in each hand.

"You're going to buy us the pizzas, right?"

"If you buy the drinks."

"Aw, come on. You know the good stuff is on me."

"What do you mean…? Oh. Okay, I guess. But just this once."

The blonde girl took out a large chocolate bar, the most expensive in the store, and brought it to Mark, the one at the counter.

However, instead of starting another wordless ritual, she knocked him off with a single word.

"Hi."

He closed the comic with a low bang and straightened up. His fists clenched as they engaged eye contact. Her pale lips were now pinker, and its edges gave a tiny trace of going up.

"..."

Mark blinked a few times and the ghost of the little curve faded, as she pushed the bill in the counter towards him.

He knew he had to say something to her, but the words didn't come out. Her brother and his friend kept arguing over which brand of beer to get. Apparently the bearded one cared a lot about that petty detail.

If they managed to hear Mark's important question, perhaps the latter would end up in a terrible situation in which Al wouldn't ever return to the store and he would remain single for the rest of his dull life and die in his cold and damp apartment, probably overdosed.

"Uh…"

He looked up, after counting the three dimes in his hand. The moment was now.

"Ahem." Mark only gazed at her and nodded as thanks. Like to the rest of the customers.

She rolled her eyes. With the coins on her pocket, she walked to the other two, in the liquor area.

The ex-soldier sat down again, disheartened. Stupid syndrome, and stupid ephemeral placebo effect of the pills. He flipped through the comic book, his eyes lost as she grabbed a bite watching the other two arguing, enjoying the conflict.

In the end, the bearded one ended up winning.

"Screw this, I'll pay. Shut up, Ash."

"I'll take mine then."

"Are you really buying that trash?"

"You're missing the good things in life, fatman."

The bald man, who answered the name of Ash, took out his wallet, his smug expression fading as he inspected inside.

"Fortunately, you now have a bit common sense, nerdie." The bearded Mark taunted, seeing Ash return the six-pack back to its place.

"Tch, whatever."

The three returned to the counter, Al staying behind, nibbling her chocolate.

"Hey, man. We'll take this. " The bearded Mark placed the two six-packs in front of Mark.

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen what, punk? Don't you have some manners?" The burly Mark suddenly looked bigger and menacing.

The slim Mark narrowed his eyes to his namesake. Not the worst customer he has troubled with.

"Don't bother, Mark, he doesn't talk much."

The two Marks looked at Al. The unintended double Mark caught the three guys off guard, making their brains' gears rotate for a moment.

"Huh. I just noticed that you have the same name, haha."

Drat. Mark cursed the pin with his name, but considered many options. Maybe, and just maybe, she knew his name from a long time ago.

"Do you come here often, Alex? You seem to know him well."

"Yes, kind of. Are you going to pay or what?"

The bearded Mark left the exact sum on the counter and left through the door with Ash behind.

Alex was halfway through her chocolate. She snorted, glancing at slim Mark, and turned to go outside, taking another bite.

"Hi." Mark's voice came out like a whisper.

She stopped short, but after a second continued towards the door. Mark inhaled, briefly closing his eyes.

"Hi, Alex."

The bell rang and she regarded him. Her faint smile reappeared, curving enough to resemble a smirk.

Mark's heartbeat rose to a sweet tachycardia.

"See you around, Mark."

The radio tunes continued playing after a while. Mark tidied up the store, trying to spend some energies. Now done with the normal beverages, he opened the freezer, the vapor cooling down his cheeks and senses.

His joy didn't last, as the little bell rang again. Seeing the cash register unguarded, he quickly closed the freezer, and rushed back to his spot.

Much to his surprise, no one was there. Instead, he found a paper folded in half dropped on the floor. Mark, curious, picked it up and opened it.

A red circle drawn with three lines across. The ex-soldier looked around, through the tiny windows. He dashed out to the street, and got greeted by the usual pedestrians and Miami traffic.

Mike's store had been marked. The note from the box now seemed serious, and it had been a direct message to him. His scars began to ache again.

He had to listen to the phone call again, and do what it asked him to. He didn't want Mike to be hurt, or his only escape from disorder. His disorders.

Guilt filled his chest soon enough. He had to do it, before it was too late.

Mark tended another bald man, who walked in just before he decided to close the shop.

His garish green jacket made him annoying to look at, but his soda purchase ended quickly.

Wasting no time, Mark closed the store, got in his car, and drove home.

Having collected the mask, the spray can, and the phone call's address, he headed downtown.

The now purple sky looked over the city.

The unclear address got solved as soon as Mark arrived. A baseball park, an elementary school and many businesses covered the blocks of 7th Street, like a big complex of saunas or doughnut stores. These overshadowed the little houses they had beside.

About those, all of them had the same pattern. They had a single floor. Turning to the last block of 7th Street, Mark finally found two big buildings, one across the street from the other.

The left one had a hoodlum meeting on the entrance, judging from their smoking and loud laughs. A buff thug eyed his car as Mark drove by.

The right one had its lights on, but none were at the doorway.

Mark parked behind a black Fiat, outside the second building. His hands still on the handle, he softly dropped his head to the claxon, and took a deep breath.

"Before the night."

He looked at every direction with the mirrors, and found the precise moment to leave his car and run towards the lone wooden door. Mark pushed it. It didn't have any lock, so he stepped inside.

The mask on his pocket stood out. He grabbed it and put it on. Criminal or not, his face did its best in the shadows. In any case, he didn't expect the raccoon's eyeholes to go smoothly with his sight and his breathing.

"Apartment 205."

One step at a time, the pressure of his grip on the spray can increased. The staircase was on the left, ending the corridor.

On the second floor, he only saw two rooms, one in front of the other.

Mark heard some voices on the left. Voices in Russian. Then he understood what he had come to do. Another mark, like the one the callers send to the store, but much bigger.

He unlocked the spray can and began tagging on the floor between the two doors, making the symbol he had already seen twice.

Hearing bumps from the room with the voices, Mark quickened his pace. This side of the city, with hoodlums on the street, and Russian language. Oh.

As soon as he finished the third line, he hurried to the exit.

He felt one trail of sweat going down his cheek, but on top of that, the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Before he could even enjoy the moment, he hopped into the car.

The hoodlums still were loudly conversing far away, not even showing signs of noticing the masked ex-soldier. The street seemed empty, too.

He took off his mask and put a hand on his racing heart. His fast-paced breathing matched it. A weak grin formed on his face. He had missed this. The adrenaline, the fear, the danger...

Only suicidal people would try to threaten the Russian mob, but he had complied with their task. Was he suicidal too? Mark started to laugh. His scars stung again, but he didn't give a damn.

He suddenly remembered his mother. His mind joined the pain, and stopped his grinning.

To drive it away, he tried shaking his head.

Instead of his mother, the image of Alex nibbling her chocolate saying goodbye showed up.

"Oh, bullshit." Mark whispered, turning on the car.

Back to the bridge to Miami Beach, he sped up. The less time it took to re-open the store, the better. With some luck, Mike watched dusk with the calming waves of the sea and not from the counter of his store.

house plants - We're Going Out Tonight Again