My nephew came to stay with me for the entire summer. From the first day, he wore black gloves. Every single day. Even inside the house. When I finally asked about it, he gave me a small, rehearsed smile and said, “Uncle… my hands are just sensitive.” At first, I didn’t push. But one morning, I quietly opened the bathroom door. He was at the sink. The gloves were off. And when I saw his palms… my heart nearly stopped

“The police,” he said. “Or people inside it. My mom was part of something undercover. Not the kind they put in reports. She worked for a unit that did things off the books. Things that got buried. And when I learned too much… I stopped being her son and started being a liability.”

I felt cold all over.

“The mark?” I asked.

He looked down at his gloved hands. “A warning. A claim. You get branded so you remember who owns you.”

“And your mom?”

His eyes darkened. “They said she killed herself. I don’t believe them.”

The room went still.

He told me they had watched him for years. That he had been moved, hidden, tracked. That whatever his mother had been part of hadn’t ended with her. It had followed him.

When he finally stopped talking, I realized there was no safe distance left between us. Whatever this was, it was already here.

“Nolan,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, “you’re not alone in this anymore.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”