Echoes of the masked

The Los Angeles night remained crisp and cool. Streetlights flickered as cars rolled by, their tires grinding over the damp pavement, leaving smears of blurred reflections.

Archie Seabrook pushed open the front door and stepped into the living room, frowning almost instantly.

The floor was damp.

With the recent humidity, the wooden boards had started to warp slightly. He glanced down, thinking he’d need to find time to wax them soon—or else the whole floor might need replacing.

What he didn’t know was that the gaps beneath those boards were stuffed with cash and guns.

Seventeen’s rhythm of life had grown lax.

She slept in most days, dragging herself out of bed in the afternoon with messy hair hanging over her face. She’d shuffle to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and washing up with half-open, sleepy eyes.

At night, she refused to sleep, keeping the TV on until the early hours. Sometimes Archie worked overnight shifts, and when he got home, the living room TV would still be glowing, its volume turned low. The sofa was a chaotic sprawl of snack bags, takeout boxes, and crumpled tissues, with Seventeen curled up asleep in the middle of it all.

Archie stood in the doorway, staring at the scene, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Where’d you get the money for all these snacks?”

Seventeen cracked her eyes open, yawned, and mumbled, “From odd jobs I did before.”

Archie didn’t bother digging deeper. “Don’t stay up too late. They just pulled a floater out of the river last week.”

That snapped her awake, her eyes lighting up. “Oh? Was it all bloated and pale when you found it?”

Archie sighed, reaching over to yank her ear. “You’ve got time to gawk at corpses but not to clean up around here?”

He picked up a cup from the coffee table, grimacing. “Look at this thing—cockroaches are about to move in and call you their roommate.”

Seventeen grumbled as she was forced to clean, dragging a mop around half-heartedly, barely skimming the floor.

Archie leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. “You’re not seriously treating my place like a hotel, are you?”

Seventeen pouted, continuing her lazy cleanup.

In two weeks, she’d “officially” move into a college dorm.

By the usual schedule, she’d only come back here on weekends. But her real plan was clear—use that time to gradually move the gear stashed in Archie’s place, scout new targets, assemble a crew, and pull off a real big score.

Los Angeles was a greasy goldmine, but it was far more complicated than the places she’d hit before.

She needed time. She needed people. She needed an opening.

Unfortunately, things weren’t going smoothly.

Seventeen had rented a small restaurant three stops away—a front posing as a cheap Western diner, but really her temporary base.

She planned to use it as a transfer hub, stashing the gear from Archie’s place there before slowly recruiting local gang muscle.

But she quickly hit a wall—no one wanted to work with her.

In the underworld, her name carried weight. Finding a few desperate souls willing to risk it all with her should’ve been easy.

But her reputation had a problem.

She’d killed her own crew.

In the black market, “infighting” was the ultimate taboo. Robbing banks, jacking cars, laundering cash—that was all fine. But betraying your own? No one dared trust her after that.

Seventeen stared at the phone, her gaze icy.

She was starting to realize this job might be tougher than she’d thought.

Lately, Seventeen’s mood had been off.

Archie noticed.

“What’s up? Someone giving you trouble at work?”

Seventeen gave a vague nod, clearly not wanting to talk.

Archie shrugged on his jacket and hauled her up. “Come on, take me to this job of yours.”

Seventeen’s stomach dropped.

She wasn’t working anywhere—that restaurant was her own black-market front. If Archie sniffed out anything suspicious, her whole plan would collapse.

But she knew he wouldn’t let it go, so she reluctantly led him to the diner’s doorstep.

From the outside, it looked like any rundown joint—faded ads peeling off the windows, a menu limited to fried pork chops, spaghetti, and frozen pizza.

Two shifty-looking waiters loitered by the entrance, yawning against the doorframe. When they saw Seventeen and Archie, their eyes sharpened with a flicker of wariness.

“Who’s your manager?” Archie asked.

The two exchanged a glance, then looked at Seventeen, obviously clueless on how to respond.

Seventeen cursed inwardly, grabbing Archie’s arm with a forced, awkward smile. “Forget it, it’s no big deal.”

Archie frowned. “If there’s a problem at work, just say it. I’ll sort it out.”

She tugged him away, her voice dropping. “I wasn’t planning to stick around there anyway.”

The motorcycle hummed through the night streets.

Seventeen sat on the back, leaning against Archie’s frame, silent.

The breeze carried a faint whiff of tobacco. Out of nowhere, she asked, “Why’d you move to LA alone?”

Archie’s back stiffened slightly, and he let out a soft chuckle.

“They never told you?”

“I don’t really listen to family gossip,” she brushed off.

His voice was light, almost detached. “After my parents split, I stayed with my mom. She remarried, had a new family, and I started feeling like a spare part. So I left with an old friend from back home.”

He said it casually, like it was someone else’s story.

“Went back to see her my first year on the job. Her new husband was smoking on the couch, the kids didn’t know me, and she didn’t know how to talk to me either.”

“I stayed less than two days, then bought an early ticket back.”

Seventeen listened quietly, the night wind tugging her hair, tangling it against Archie’s jacket.

Then it hit her—

Archie was alone too.

He didn’t have the web of relatives or friends in this city she’d worried about. Like her, he was a drifter, washed up in LA from somewhere else.

The two of them were like castaways on an isolated island in this sprawling city.

The motorcycle stopped at a red light.

On the crosswalk, a young couple led their kid across the street. The mom bent down, saying something to the child, while the dad laughed and ruffled their hair.

Seventeen spoke up suddenly. “Why don’t you start your own family?”

Archie stared at the traffic light ahead, shrugging. “I don’t know how to make a home.”

Seventeen blurted out, “Isn’t it just—find someone, have kids, you wash dishes on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, she sweeps on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday?”

Archie chuckled, then tossed back casually, “Isn’t that basically what we’re doing now?”

Seventeen froze.

She’d just been talking nonsense, not expecting that response.

The light turned green, and the motorcycle roared back to life.

Archie’s voice cut through the wind. “If this counts as a home, you in?”

Her heart jolted.

She knew she couldn’t let herself fall for him.

So she laughed it off. “Sure, I’m in.”

Archie paused, then laughed too.

“Alright, then I’m in too.”