The morning breeze was soothing, brushing through Vincent and Marcus's hair as the motorcycle sped through the half-empty road. The sun had barely risen above the skyline, painting golden streaks on the sleepy town. The wind carried the smell of roasted beans and wet asphalt—peaceful, almost poetic, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Vincent's mind.
But Vincent's mind was anything but peaceful. It was chaos.
Every hum of the bike, every sigh from Marcus sitting behind him, only twisted the knife of guilt deeper into his chest.
His arms ached from the grip on the handlebars, a physical echo of the war inside him.
How the hell am I supposed to ditch him? Can I even do that? The emotional part of him screamed no, clawing at his ribs with a desperate intensity, but the voice of reason—the one hardened by years of surviving on the streets—whispered you have to. It was a mantra he'd lived by, a shield against the softness creeping in.
