The motel room was soaked in red light. A single neon bulb outside blinked through the broken blinds, painting the walls in pulses — red, black, red again. The air was thick, humming faintly with the bass thudding from the bar below, as if the world outside hadn't yet realized something inside had gone very, very wrong.
Vincent stumbled backward onto the bed, his pulse still racing. The door slammed shut behind Marcus with a low, final click — a sound far quieter than it should've been, and somehow far more terrifying.
Marcus stood in front of it, chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm. His right hand was still smeared with blood, streaked down his wrist and over his veins like a crimson glove. He didn't seem to feel the pain — or maybe he enjoyed it. His eyes, those soft, distracted eyes Vincent had known until now, were gone. What replaced them was cold, focused, predatory.
Vincent swallowed hard. "Marcus… what the hell was that?"
