Vince stood completely still, listening to the slow, steady steps of the person who had just entered the basement.
The footsteps stopped halfway down.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He nearly broke down, gripping his chest to calm his racing heart. His corner was hidden enough, dark enough, that he might avoid being seen. Still, panic threatened to choke him.
Then he heard it.
Sizzle.
The sharp crack of a match, followed by the faint smell of burning wood. A moment later, a gas lamp flared to life, bathing the room in trembling orange light.
That's where it was…
Vince narrowed his eyes, squinting through the glow. The figure came into view, a tall man with short, light brown hair streaked with blond. His hazel eyes glinted faintly under the flame. His skin was pale, his features mature, and though his expression was calm, he had a certain presence to him. Handsome, almost.
He wore a black cotton shirt and wool shorts, barefoot as if he lived comfortably here.
Not the old man. His son maybe…
Vince shifted back into the shadows, heart pounding. The lamplight revealed more of the basement. Brown crates stacked along the walls, concrete floor cold and bare, and in the center a low wooden table surrounded by worn light-brown sofas.
Don't panic. Just don't get caught.
But his thoughts only made him sweat more. He had never been in a situation where prison felt this close, where one slip could cost him everything.
The man walked calmly to one of the crates. He lifted the lid and pulled out a rectangular box and something metallic. When the light caught it, Vince's breath caught.
A gun?
The man carried both items back to the table. Setting the weapon down, he opened the box and pulled out a thinner stack from inside. Cards.
Cards? Vince's mind spun. Is this… some kind of gambling setup? Roulette, maybe?
His face damp with sweat, he forced himself to stay quiet, crouched low in the corner. But the heat from the lamp and the suffocating pressure of being discovered made him dizzy.
I can't get caught. I won't…
The man began arranging the cards. Vince wiped his face and tried to steady his breathing. When the man finally rose from the sofa, his back was turned.
Slowly, Vince reached for the knife at his waist. The blade was still wrapped, its edge hidden. With careful movements he peeled it free, the dim light catching on its surface.
The man was moving toward another crate, pausing at one with a jagged hole. His eyes darted over it, then narrowed. From the corner of his vision, he must have noticed something, something in the shadows.
He spun.
Too late.
Vince lunged forward, knife plunging into his body.
Tears blurred his vision as he whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
Vince's knife plunged straight into the man's lungs. Hot blood gushed out, boiling over his hands.
The man's hazel eyes widened, his soul slipping away with every gasp.
Why did I do this!
Vince pushed harder, slamming the man's body against the cold concrete.
THUD!
He hovered over him, hands still buried deep in the man's chest, listening to the faint, dying gasps.
Vince trembled, his breath ragged.
I…I killed a man. I fucking killed a man!
His mind spiraled as he stared at the blood soaking his skin. His stomach turned and saliva flooded his mouth. He bolted toward the nearest stack of boxes, collapsed to his knees, and vomited out his lunch.
Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he pressed his palms against his face. He couldn't shake the image, the man's fading soul, ripped away before his very eyes. Vince had seen corpses before, scattered across the streets of Koburn, but never like this. Never fresh. Never someone alive one moment, gone the next.
He forced himself to look back at the body.
"Please… I'm sorry…" Vince whispered to the corpse, though his voice cracked, broken.
His thoughts screamed louder.
I can't leave any evidence.
His hands shook as he picked up the bloodied knife and wiped it clean. But then his eyes caught on the body. The man's pale skin began to sear, smoke curling off it.
His hazel eyes rolled back, turning milky white. Blood etched itself into the whites, forming a number.
7Ft.
Vince blinked, baffled.
Seven feet? What the hell does that mean? The only thing close is… the table.
He staggered toward the table in the center of the room. Nothing seemed unusual—until the gun the man had placed earlier began to rattle.
Vince froze.
The hell?!
The gun shook violently, clattering as if it had a life of its own, then stopped dead. A faint glow pulsed from it. The air around it grew heavy, suffocating, as though it wanted to clutch Vince's heart in its grip.
No. Focus. You've got more important shit to deal with.
Vince swallowed back another wave of nausea and forced himself to grab the body, dragging it across the floor. His hands slipped on the blood, his breath heavy, his mind screaming at him to run.
Then—
Creakkk!
The basement door swung open again.
Another man stood in the doorway. White hair. Hazel eyes. A black cotton shirt with white wool shorts hanging past his knees. In his hands, an iron crowbar.
"WHO THE HELL IS HERE?!"
He stormed down the steps, eyes clenched shut as if afraid to look. When he finally opened them, his face drained of all color.
There, right in front of him, was his son.
Being dragged by the priest he had met earlier that very day.
The man froze. His body shook, tears streaming down his face. His hands tightened around the crowbar until his knuckles turned white.
And then he screamed, voice shattering with grief and rage.
"W-WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY SON?!"