Echoes of the masked

For the first time, the name “Seventeen” appeared on the whiteboard in the meeting room.

The Los Angeles Police Department was piecing together every clue they had about this mysterious figure.

It wasn’t the first time this name had surfaced in criminal records.

Initially, the police had zeroed in on a crime syndicate called “Mask,” a group once made up of eight members specializing in armed robbery, arms trafficking, and black-market dealings. Over the past few years, the gang had clashed with law enforcement multiple times, with four of its members gunned down in various raids.

Then, on Halloween night, the last three members were executed by one of their own and dumped on the streets.

The only one left alive was Seventeen.

“No one knows exactly how many lives she’s taken,” Detective Eric Vasquez said, flipping through the file with a frown. “People like her usually climb the ranks based on their ‘kill count.’ Age is secondary.”

“According to the widow of one of the deceased, three years ago, her husband brought a young person home.”

Every head in the meeting room snapped up, eyes locking onto the report in Vasquez’s hands.

“She recalled that the person was young, but her husband treated them with extreme deference.”

The tension in the room thickened.

“She said her husband called that person ‘Little Seventeen.’” Vasquez paused. “Then that person told her their full name was just Seventeen.”

Archie Seabrook sat in the corner, arms crossed, his face dark. “Could be an alias.”

“Or maybe this identity doesn’t exist in any official records at all,” Vasquez said, sifting through the dossier. “Even if they gave us their real name, our system might not have it.”

“What else did she say?”

Vasquez hesitated, a faint, cryptic smirk tugging at his lips. “She said… Seventeen doesn’t eat spicy food.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Then a few detectives let out low chuckles.

Archie’s brow furrowed. “How’s that relevant to the case?”

“Hang on,” Vasquez shrugged. “She’s a woman from New Mexico—her cooking’s on the spicy side. She remembered one time she made a spicy lamb stew for dinner. Seventeen took one bite and immediately chugged beer, looking completely overwhelmed by the heat.”

Another ripple of soft laughter passed through the room before it settled back into silence.

Vasquez turned the page, his expression growing serious. “Her husband once arranged for a cold storage unit, saying it was for Seventeen.”

“Cold storage?” Archie’s frown deepened. “For smuggled goods? Weapons?”

“At first, she thought so too. She figured Seventeen needed it to store black-market items—smuggled game meat, ginseng, deer antlers, that sort of thing.”

“And then?”

Vasquez didn’t answer. Instead, he laid a stack of black-and-white photos on the table.

As the images spread across the surface, the meeting room fell into a deathly silence.

Even the seasoned detectives, accustomed to grisly crime scenes, went quiet.

Archie picked up a photo, his eyes scanning its contents.

In the grainy black-and-white image, the floor of the cold storage unit was lined with several intact human body parts—precisely cut, packaged, and stacked in the freezer.

He stared at the picture, his fingertips tightening.

“This isn’t your average black-market deal,” he said slowly, a chill creeping into his voice.

“This is… a slaughterhouse.”

At the same moment, Seventeen sat in Archie’s apartment, her fingers discreetly adjusting the zipper on her backpack.

She’d already packed everything, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

But then—

The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed from the door.

Archie was back.

Seventeen paused, her expression instantly smoothing into calm. She quickly sank back onto the sofa, slouching deliberately as if she’d just been about to rest.

The door swung open. Archie stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the apartment.

Something seemed off to him—his brow creased slightly, and he lingered at the threshold for a few seconds.

“…What’s that smell?” he asked abruptly.

Seventeen’s heartbeat faltered for a split second.

She scrambled for an excuse. “I was hungry. Grabbed a bowl of soup from the corner.”

Archie snorted, stepping inside. “Did they cook that soup with gasoline? Smells like an oil spill.”

Seventeen shrugged. “It was pretty bad.”

Archie didn’t press further. He tossed his motorcycle keys onto the table and clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you some real dinner.”

Los Angeles glowed under the night sky, neon lights casting halos on the damp asphalt, the streets alive with noise.

Archie Seabrook rode his motorcycle, Seventeen perched behind him as they cut through the downtown nightlife district. Crowds milled around—young people clustered outside bars and clubs, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and tobacco.

Seventeen sat quietly on the back, the night breeze brushing past her ears.

Tonight, Archie was going to introduce her to his friends.

The bar, “Maverick’s,” was a retro joint with a cozy vibe. Dim lights filtered through amber glass bottles, casting warm tones across the room. The bar counter displayed rows of whiskey, and the air carried a mix of woodsy furniture and the fruity tang of cocktails.

This was Archie’s regular hangout with his crew—mostly childhood friends from the neighborhood, some former coworkers, and a few familiar faces he’d collaborated with over the years.

They gathered around a booth, some sipping drinks and talking sports, others ribbing a buddy about an old embarrassment, punctuated by bursts of low laughter.

Seventeen stood at the entrance, taking it all in.

She’d been in countless bars before, but almost never like this—standing among a group of unguarded people, feeling a strange, long-forgotten sense of… safety.

“Come on, meet the gang.”

Archie tugged Seventeen toward the group, introducing her. “This is Melissa, my cousin. Just got to LA.”

Seventeen gave a small smile, putting on a slightly shy demeanor, like a small-town girl unsure of herself among strangers. She nodded lightly. “Hi, everyone.”

“Oh! Archie’s got a cousin?”

A bearded man let out a whistle, grinning as he teased, “How come you never mentioned her before?”

“She wasn’t around here before,” Archie said casually, pulling out a barstool. “Sit. What do you want to drink?”

Seventeen glanced at the bar and smiled faintly. “Whiskey Sour.”

Archie raised an eyebrow and called to the bartender, “Go light on the whiskey.”

Seventeen didn’t argue, just accepted the glass with a smile.

She knew full well she needed to play the part of an ordinary girl new to the big city—not a fugitive who’d gunned down three people.

A few rounds in, the mood loosened up.

Seventeen watched Archie and his friends chat, their conversation drifting from childhood stories to recent work gripes, then to someone’s upcoming wedding. Amid the laughter, everyone seemed comfortable and at ease.

She kept observing.

Noting who was the talker, who stayed steady, who held sway, who lightened the mood.

But at the same time, she realized something—no one here had their guard up around her.

They were even starting to embrace her, treating her like a real “Melissa.”

A girl leaned over, giving her shoulder a friendly pat. “Was your cousin this bossy as a kid too?”

Seventeen played along, smiling with a hint of mock exasperation. “Oh yeah, he’s been bossing people around since forever.”

That sparked a round of laughs, with a few jumping in to tease Archie about being “old-school” and “uptight.” He just shrugged, unbothered, letting them have their fun.

Then someone slid a basket of fries across the table. “Try these—way better than chain stuff.”

Seventeen grabbed one casually, about to take a bite, when a blond guy at the other end of the table grinned and added, “Watch out, they’re special spicy.”

Her movement paused for a fraction of a second, but she bit into it like it was nothing.

A blazing heat hit her tongue instantly.

The fry in her hand stilled, and her smile froze for a fleeting moment.

She didn’t flinch or reach for water—just chewed quietly and swallowed.

Then she picked up her glass, taking a small sip of the sweet-tart lemon to wash away the burn.

Her reaction was seamless, almost flawless, but Archie, sitting beside her, caught that brief hesitation.

He arched a brow, asking casually, “What? Too spicy?”

Seventeen met his gaze, flashing a light smile, her voice steady. “It’s fine.”

Archie studied her for a second, then let it drop, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

Seventeen set her glass down, her fingers brushing the cool rim, feeling the chill of the liquid.

She realized something—

In this room, Archie was the only one paying attention.

Late night, the bar emptied out.

Seventeen and Archie stepped outside, the cool night air cutting through the lingering scent of booze.

Her steps felt light, her mood unexpectedly lifted.

Archie glanced at her. “So? Decent night, right?”

Seventeen smiled and nodded. “Yeah, everyone’s really nice.”

Archie shrugged. “You’re part of the crew now. Anyone messes with you, let me know.”

Seventeen adjusted her jacket sleeve, her eyes flickering slightly.

She’d imagined countless times how she’d hide, how she’d evade the police, how she’d craft a new identity and leave this city behind.

But now, it hit her—

She didn’t need to run.

She was already hidden in plain sight, in a place even a detective wouldn’t suspect.

If she wanted, she could keep this identity going forever.