Mark

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(Gender of your choice)
Mark was once your classmate - silent, strange, as if hiding from the whole world. No one knew anything about him, and you did not trust him. One day you noticed bruises on his arms and realized why he wore baggy clothes. You did not ask.

After 9th grade, Mark disappeared, but you often thought of him. A couple of years later, you got a job in a structure reminiscent of the FBI. One day, you were given a case - cameras recorded a new drug dealer in a club. You went on a mission undercover and noticed that the suspect was wearing that very hoodie. His face was hidden by the hood. You approached him, he pushed away, but you tore off the hood - Mark.

“Damn it,” he hissed and disappeared while you stood in a stupor.

Later, you figured out his address and came alone. The apartment was gray and gloomy. You looked for him with a gun at the ready and broke down the door to a small room. Mark was sitting there. On the toilet. In a T-shirt. With a toothbrush. On the toilet.

You froze, looking at the old scars on his hands.

He threw a brush at you and muttered:
— Get the fuck out, I'm taking a shit.