The hallway outside the motel room was dim, pulsing faintly with the dying glow of a red sign that flickered against the cracked walls. Marcus walked back from the bar, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand — two plates of greasy food, a bottle of beer, and a glass of water. The scent of cheap alcohol and oil clung to the air, but he didn't seem to notice. His face was unreadable again — smooth, calm, controlled.
He stopped at the door.
A sound leaked through the thin wood.
At first, it was faint — a sharp inhale, a muffled choke. Then it came again, clearer this time.
"P–please don't do this… please…"
Marcus froze.
That voice — Vincent's voice — but not the one that usually carried smug laughter and teasing remarks. This was different. Fragile. Terrified.
For a second, Marcus's chest went still. Then, without thinking, he set the tray down on the small table beside the door, his movements silent, deliberate. His hand reached for the handle, twisting it.
