Chapter 1: The Red Mark

After reuniting with my first love, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

Maybe it was the cheap merlot—Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck, the bottle half-empty on my nightstand—or maybe it was all those pent-up years between us. We were practically glued together, tumbling onto my old, creaky bed while our laughter bounced off the popcorn ceiling. Her perfume—sharp and citrusy, like orange soda with a twist—clung to my sheets, mixing with the hum of the window AC. Outside, the neon glow of a Walmart sign cut through the blinds, but in that moment, nothing else existed but us.

When things got too heated, I leaned down and bit the tattoo on her chest. Out of nowhere, she kicked me right off the bed.

I hit the scratchy carpet, the impact knocking the wind—and whatever swagger I had—right out of me. For a second, I just stared up at the popcorn ceiling, trying to process what just happened. My heart was racing, but not in the good way anymore. The look she shot me was wild, almost panicked—a flicker there and gone. The whole vibe in the room changed, like someone had cranked the thermostat to freezing.

I was totally confused, so that night I vented in our group chat.

Sitting in the blue glow of my phone screen, I typed out the story to my old college buddies—our group chat, "The Soggy Bottom Boys" (don’t ask—long story from a drunken karaoke night in Tallahassee). The replies started coming in: somebody dropped a Michael Scott "No God Please No" GIF, another spammed the crying-laugh emoji, and a third suggested I buy her flowers in the morning. Everyone was tossing out wild guesses—maybe I’d hit a nerve about her ex or something. It felt good to be heard, even if none of them had a clue.

Everyone started throwing out wild guesses, when suddenly, the group admin—the guy who never says a word—sent me a private message:

The admin’s profile pic was just a blurry shot of an old Ford pickup, no posts, never even liked anyone’s pictures. He never joined in on the jokes. He never even liked my post about the time I got stuck in an elevator with a goat. That’s how silent he was. So when I saw his DM pop up, my gut tightened. His message wasn’t some meme or half-baked advice—it was just this:

"Does your girlfriend have a bright red cross-shaped mark on her tattoo?"

"If she does, get out. Now."

My phone screen seemed to pulse with the words, a cold sweat breaking out along my spine.