Vincent woke to the sound of quiet — too quiet. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The air smelled faintly of cheap soap and something metallic. The dim motel light leaked through the blinds, stripes of gold slashing across the room.
His head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes. Everything felt heavy — his limbs, his breath, even his thoughts. He blinked, trying to remember.
Then it all rushed back.
The broken glass.
Marcus's hand around his throat.
The words that still echoed like a burn: You shouldn't have let her touch you.
Vincent's stomach turned. He pushed himself upright, groaning as dizziness clawed through him. "What the hell was that last night…" he muttered, pressing a hand to his temple.
The door creaked open before he could think further. Marcus stepped in, his expression soft, the corners of his mouth curved in a calm, practiced smile. A tray balanced in his hands — a bowl of stew, a half-empty beer bottle.
"Good morning, Tom," he said gently.
