Coming Soon: The 13th Book
The most daring confession ever written—sealed with a welcome invitation.
—
I should’ve burned these pages.
There were nights I came close—cigarette in one hand, match in the other—staring down at a stack of notes like they were soaked in gasoline. But something always stopped me. Not guilt. Not fear.
Something colder: the certainty that if I didn’t speak now, someone else eventually would.
And no one tells my story but me.
This isn’t a memoir.
It’s a detonation.
The 13th Book isn’t redemption. It’s rot. A record of what I did to survive, what I destroyed to stay free, and what I buried so deep I nearly convinced myself it never happened. It’s the anatomy of disappearance—written by the only man who turned it into an art form.
—
Thirteen.
Not a number—a cipher.
A curse.
A thread that stitches every escape, every reinvention, every deception.
January 13 — the day I was born into a world I was never meant to survive.
February 13 — the birthday of the father I never met, who taught me more by disappearing than most men teach by living.
March 13 — the face I borrowed to walk out of a cell no one thought I’d leave alive.
These aren’t coincidences.
They’re coordinates.
They’re the myth map of Marcus Goss.
You’ll find them hidden in hotel registries, buried in passport stamps, coded into surveillance logs that should’ve ended everything—but didn’t. If you know where to look, you’ll see how thirteen shaped every pivot in my escape.
—
Inside this book are the sins I never confessed:
The fraud that brought my first real silence.
The impersonation that made me a ghost in plain sight.
The near-suicides I staged as strategy—because sometimes disappearing means killing the part of you that still wants to live.
And now, once you open this, I disappear again.
That’s the cost of telling the truth.
Because when you decrypt what I’ve buried—when you follow the trail to the end—there won’t be a safe house left. Not a dollar I can spend. Not a face I can wear.
—
But here’s what matters:
I never ran out of fear.
I disappeared to stay in control.
Now, after a decade of silence, I’m leaving the back door open—not for fame. Not for forgiveness. But for one reason only:
This isn’t just a confession.
It’s a challenge.
Each encrypted page. Each sharpened poem. Each buried coordinate.
A test. A trap. A final invitation.
—
If you’ve studied me long enough to call yourself my adversary…
If you’ve followed the trail without blinking…
If you’ve stared into the dark long enough that it started speaking back…
Then step forward.
Step into my disappearance.
Because The Find Me Challenge begins where I end.
And I’ll be waiting—on the other side of 13.
—