The room had gone still, save for the low hum of the neon bulb outside. The same red glow washed over everything — the cracked wallpaper, the half-open beer bottle, the untouched food on the tray.
Marcus entered quietly, careful not to startle him again. Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, face pale, eyes rimmed red. The earlier panic still clung to him like invisible frost.
Marcus didn't speak. He simply placed the tray on the nightstand and pulled up a chair. For a long moment, neither moved — the air hung between them, thick and wordless.
"You should eat something," he said, voice softer now.
Vincent hesitated, wiping his face with the back of his hand. " I am Not hungry."
Marcus gave him a look — the kind that didn't allow argument. "Eat this anyway."
He took a peice of steak in the fork and gently offered it. Vincent blinked, a faint, embarrassed flush crossing his face.
"You're not serious—"
"I am dead serious and i don't go joking around"
