The fluorescent lights of Memorial General Hospital flickered like dying fireflies. Marcus Webb sat in the waiting room's plastic chair, his security guard uniform still damp with rain, and stared at his phone screen.
Medical Bill Outstanding: $347,892.18
His hand trembled. Three hundred and forty-seven thousand dollars. For a 28-year-old security guard making $16 an hour, it might as well have been three million.
"Mr. Webb?"
He looked up. Dr. Chen stood in the doorway, her expression the carefully neutral mask medical professionals wore when delivering bad news.
"Your sister's latest scans..." she hesitated. "The cancer has spread to her spine. Without the new treatment protocol, we're looking at maybe six months. With treatment, we could buy her two, maybe three years."
"How much?" Marcus's voice came out hoarse.
"The treatment protocol runs about $180,000 for the full course."
Marcus felt something break inside his chest. Half a million total. He might as well be asking for the moon.
"I understand this is difficult," Dr. Chen continued gently. "We can discuss payment plans, or perhaps—"
"I'll find the money." Marcus stood abruptly. "Can I see her?"
"Room 407. But Mr. Webb, she's sleeping, and visiting hours end in—"
Marcus was already walking.
Emma looked so small in the hospital bed. At nineteen, she should've been in her sophomore year at college, worrying about finals and boys and what to do with her life. Instead, she was drowning in tubes and monitors, her once-vibrant auburn hair reduced to thin wisps.
Marcus pulled a chair beside her bed and took her hand carefully, mindful of the IV.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open. "Marcus? You... you didn't have to come. Don't you have work?"
"Called in sick." He forced a smile. "How're you feeling, Em?"
"Like a million bucks." Her attempt at humor made his heart ache. "The nurses say I might get to go home for a few days next week."
"That's great."
"Liar." Emma's smile was weak but knowing. "I heard Dr. Chen talking to Mom. It's gotten worse, hasn't it?"
Marcus squeezed her hand. "We're going to figure it out."
"Marcus..." Tears welled in her eyes. "You can't keep doing this. The debt, working three jobs, barely sleeping. I don't want—"
"Stop." His voice was firm. "You're my little sister. I'm not giving up on you. Ever."
Emma's lower lip trembled. "I heard Mom crying last night. She thinks I can't hear, but... Marcus, what if we can't—"
"We will." He stood, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I promise you, Em. I'm going to fix this."
He had no idea how. But he'd promised, and Marcus Webb kept his promises.
Even if it killed him.
The rain had picked up by the time Marcus left the hospital. He checked his phone: 11:47 PM. His shift at the mall started at 6 AM, which meant he could grab maybe five hours of sleep if he went straight home.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Against his better judgment, he answered. "Hello?"
"Marcus Webb?" The voice was smooth, oily. "This is Vincent Rossi. We need to talk about your... financial situation."
Marcus's blood went cold. Vincent Rossi. The loan shark he'd borrowed from eight months ago when Emma's bills first started spiraling. The man had seemed reasonable then, sympathetic even. The 30% interest rate had seemed manageable.
He'd been so stupid.
"I'm working on it," Marcus said carefully.
"Working on it." Vincent's laugh had no humor in it. "Marcus, you owe me $85,000. You've paid back $12,000 in eight months. At this rate, you'll be paying until Emma's grandkids are born. If she lives that long."
"I need more time."
"Time? I gave you time. Now I need money." A pause. "Tell you what. Meet me at the warehouse on 52nd and Harbor. Midnight. We'll discuss... restructuring your debt."
"I can't—"
"That wasn't a request, Marcus. You don't show up, I pay a visit to your mother's apartment. She works late on Thursdays, doesn't she? Walks home alone through that sketchy neighborhood?"
The threat was crystal clear.
"I'll be there," Marcus said quietly.
The line went dead.
The warehouse district was exactly as inviting as it sounded—abandoned buildings, broken streetlights, and the kind of silence that made the hair on your neck stand up. Marcus's old Honda Civic sputtered into the parking lot of an old textile warehouse at 11:58 PM.
Three black SUVs were already there.
This was bad. This was very bad.
But what choice did he have?
Marcus stepped out of his car, immediately soaked by the rain. The warehouse's side door opened, warm light spilling out. A massive man in a suit—had to be 6'5", built like a linebacker—gestured him inside.
"Mr. Rossi is waiting."
The interior of the warehouse had been converted into something resembling an office—concrete floors, metal folding chairs, a desk that looked like it had been stolen from a school. Vincent Rossi sat behind it, a thin man in his fifties wearing an expensive suit that seemed out of place in the dingy surroundings.
Six more men stood around the room. All armed.
"Marcus!" Vincent stood, spreading his arms like greeting an old friend. "Thanks for coming. Have a seat."
Marcus sat in the metal chair facing the desk. Every instinct screamed at him to run.
"I'll be direct," Vincent continued, sitting back down. "You can't pay me. We both know it. That sister of yours? She's bleeding you dry, and she's going to die anyway."
"Don't—" Marcus started.
Vincent held up a hand. "Let me finish. I'm a businessman, Marcus. I don't want to hurt anyone. But I need to recoup my investment. So here's my offer: you sign over the title to your car, your mother signs over the deed to her apartment, and we call it even."
"That apartment is all my mother has."
"And that's my problem how?" Vincent's friendly demeanor evaporated. "You borrowed money you couldn't pay back. Actions have consequences."
"I need more time."
"You don't have more time!" Vincent slammed his hand on the desk. "You think you're the only deadbeat who owes me money? You think I can let you slide? Sign the papers, Marcus, or—"
"Or what?" Marcus stood up, his own anger finally breaking through. "You'll kill me? Beat me? Fine. Do it. But I'm not taking the only thing my mother has left."
Vincent's eyes went cold. "Tommy. Educate our friend here about respect."
The massive man from the door moved fast for someone his size. His fist caught Marcus in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Marcus doubled over, gasping.
"That's for wasting my time," Vincent said calmly. "Tommy, show him what happens to people who don't pay their debts."
What followed was systematic and brutal. They didn't hit his face—too obvious—but his ribs, his back, his legs. Marcus tried to fight back, but six-on-one with trained enforcers? He didn't stand a chance.
Finally, mercifully, they stopped.
Marcus lay on the concrete floor, tasting blood, pretty sure at least two ribs were broken.
"You've got one week," Vincent said, standing over him. "Come up with $85,000, or I start taking payment another way. Maybe that pretty sister of yours could work off the debt. I know some people who'd pay good money—"
"Touch her and I'll kill you." Marcus's voice was barely a whisper, but the venom in it made even Vincent pause.
"Big words from a man who can't even stand." Vincent gestured to his men. "Dump him in the alley. Let's see if threats still matter after he spends a night in the rain."
They threw Marcus out the back door like garbage. He hit the pavement hard, his vision swimming with pain and stars. Rain pounded down on him, cold and merciless.
He tried to move. His body screamed in protest.
One week. $85,000. Impossible.
Marcus closed his eyes. Maybe it would be easier to just... let go. Emma was dying anyway. His mother would survive without the apartment; she was tough. Maybe everyone would be better off without him dragging them down.
"Big brother, don't go... they'll hurt you!"
Emma's voice, from years ago. He'd been sixteen, she'd been seven, and some older kids had stolen her bike. He'd gotten beaten bloody getting it back, but he'd gotten it back.
He'd always gotten back up. For her.
Marcus forced his eyes open and tried to push himself up. His arms shook. He managed to get to his hands and knees before collapsing again.
That's when he saw it.
A small snake, bright green, no longer than his forearm. It sat coiled on a broken crate maybe five feet away, watching him with eyes that seemed far too intelligent.
"Some... watchdog you'd make," Marcus muttered through bloody lips. "Can't even... scare off a snake."
The snake tilted its head.
And Marcus heard a voice in his mind, clear as day:
"You are no ordinary human. Why do you die like one?"
Marcus blinked. The pain, the blood loss—he was hallucinating. Had to be.
The snake slithered closer, its movements unnaturally graceful. "I can feel it. The Mark. You carry the ancient blood."
"I'm... losing my mind..."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you're finally waking up." The snake was right in front of him now, its tongue flicking out to taste the air near his hand. "Tell me, human. Do you wish to live? Do you wish for power?"
Marcus should've been terrified. A talking snake? Insane. But lying broken in an alley, with a week to find impossible money and save his dying sister?
"Yes," he whispered. "I want... to live. I want... power."
The snake's eyes gleamed. "Then accept your birthright."
It struck—fangs sinking into Marcus's hand.
Fire exploded through his veins. Not poison—something else. Something ancient and powerful and wrong and right all at once. Marcus screamed as his body convulsed, as something deep inside him shifted.
Glowing marks erupted across his skin—serpentine patterns that writhed and pulsed with green light. They covered his arms, his chest, crawling up his neck. The pain in his ribs vanished. His broken bones knitted together with audible cracks.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Marcus gasped, sucking in air, his body whole and strong in ways it had never been. He pushed himself up easily, staring at his hands. The glowing marks were fading, sinking beneath his skin, but he could still feel them—a warmth, a power, coiled and waiting.
The green snake sat before him, somehow looking satisfied.
"Welcome, Master, to your true heritage. You are Serpent Born. And I am Jade, your first companion."
Marcus stared at the snake. At his healed body. At the impossible situation that had just become even more impossible.
"What... what the hell just happened to me?"
Jade's mental voice carried a hint of amusement. "Everything changed, Marcus Webb. Everything."
In the distance, thunder rumbled. But Marcus barely heard it over the sound of his own heartbeat—strong, steady, and hungry for answers.
To be continued...