Chapter 28: "Descent into Childhood Shadows" Julian POV

I’m still froze, staring at that text—“Run”—on my phone, Marcus looking at me like I’ve lost it. He didn’t send it—his phone’s right there, untouched—and Claire’s pacing, muttering, “We’re screwed.” The flat’s dark, glass still crunching underfoot from that rock, and my head’s a mess—Victor, Tony Vex, some higher power, and now this. My hands are shaking, and I’m thinking—run where? From who? The email—“end up like her”—is loud in my skull, and I’m sinking, old stuff bubbling up I’ve kept buried deep.

I drop the phone, slump on the sofa, and my mind’s drifting—back to London, years ago, before Vegas, before Marcus. I was a kid, ten maybe, and my parents were always whispering—hushed fights in the kitchen, voices low so I wouldn’t hear. “Keep him out of it,” Mum’d say, sharp, and Dad’d mutter, “Too late for that.” I didn’t get it then—just thought they were mad about bills or something—but now, with all this, it’s hitting different. Marcus was the wild one later, pulling me into his mess, but was my family tied to something too?

Claire’s voice snaps me back—“Jules, you okay?”—but I shake my head, hands rubbing my face. “Old stuff,” I mumble, and Marcus frowns, leaning in. “What stuff?” he says, rough, but I don’t answer—just sit there, memories creeping in. Mum warning me, “Don’t trust easy, love,” her eyes scared. Dad locking the shed one night, late, something heavy clanking inside. I’d forgotten it—pushed it down when I left for Vegas—but now it’s loud, like it’s connected. Was that why I ran here? To escape something I didn’t even know?

The doorbell buzzes, sharp, and I jump, heart slamming. Marcus grabs a bat from the corner—daft, but he’s twitchy—and Claire peeks out the broken window. “It’s some bloke,” she whispers, and I’m up, slow, peering through the peephole. It’s Mick—bloody Mick Tanner, a mate from my first year in Vegas, dealing cards at a dive off the Strip. Haven’t seen him in ages, not since I moved up to The Mirage. My gut twists—what’s he doing here, now?

I open the door, cautious, and he steps in—tall, scruffy, eyes darting. “Jules,” he says, low, “heard you’re in deep.” My chest’s tight—he knows? How? Marcus lowers the bat, confused, and Claire’s glaring, arms crossed. “Who’s this?” she snaps, but Mick ignores her, locking eyes with me. “Your family was never innocent in this town,” he says, cryptic, voice hard. My breath catches, and I’m stuck, staring—family? Vegas? He leans in, quieter. “Saw your name online—Tony’s blog. Figured it’s time you knew.”

“Knew what?” I say, voice shaky, and he smirks, grim. “Your folks—back in London, they ran with dodgy types. Came here once, ‘fore you did—knew the game, Jules. Marcus wasn’t the first in your life to play dirty.” My head’s spinning—repressed stuff crashing up—Dad’s shed, Mum’s warnings, and now this? Mick’s watching me, steady. “They bailed, left you clean—or so they thought. But it’s here, always was.” I’m shaking—my parents, tied to Vegas, to this web of lies?

Marcus steps closer, frowning. “What’s he on about, Jules?” But I don’t know—just stand there, memories twisting. Was that why they whispered? Why they pushed me out here—to run from their own past? Mick’s still talking, low. “Heard whispers—your Marcus, he’s just the latest. Your family knew the shadows—knew ‘em before he ever did.” My stomach drops—what did Marcus know? Not my Marcus now, but his secrets, his smuggling—did my folks touch that world too, long before?

I’m digging now, deeper, and it’s hitting me—my parents weren’t clean, not like I thought. Mum’s “Don’t trust easy”—was that about blokes like Salazar? Dad’s locked shed—cash? Deals? I look at the ledger on the table, Tony’s name, Victor’s photo, and I’m wondering—were they in this kind of mess, back then? Marcus pulled me into his chaos, but was I already marked for it? My hands ball up, and I’m scared—proper scared—my family tied to these secrets, years before Marcus ever rebelled, ever ran.

Mick’s quiet, watching me fall apart, and Claire mutters, “This is mad.” Marcus grabs my shoulder, shaky. “Jules, you didn’t know—none of it.” But I’m not sure—those whispers, that clank, it’s too close. Mick steps back, heading for the door, and I grab his arm, desperate. “What’d they do, Mick? What’d they know?” He pulls free, grim, and drops one last line, chilling, slow: “Some ghosts never rest.”

My heart stops, and he’s gone—door clicking shut, leaving me froze. Marcus’s hand’s still on me, Claire’s staring, and that remark’s loud—“ghosts never rest.” My parents’ shadows, Marcus’s past, this web—it’s all crashing in, and I’m reeling, terrified. Was it them in that email—“end up like her”? Did they dig too deep, like me? My phone’s on the table, that “Run” text glaring, and I’m stuck, wondering—what ghosts are awake now, and how close are they?