Vincent stood frozen behind the pillar, the card clutched tightly in his hand, its edges biting into his palm.
Marcus's tear-streaked face lingered in his mind, the broken call of "Tom… Tom… where did you go?" echoing like a wound he couldn't ignore.
His chest ached with a pang he hadn't felt in years—a mix of guilt and something softer, something dangerously close to care. I know how it feels to be ditched, he thought, the memory of his own abandonments flashing like a ghost—cold nights, empty promises, the sting of being left behind. Logically, he should run, turn this into the heist he'd mastered, use the card to secure his future.
But emotionally, the sight of Marcus's vulnerability had cracked something inside him, a fissure he couldn't seal.
He exhaled sharply, the morning air cool against his flushed skin, and forced his mind to calculate. If I ditch, I lose him—and the con. If I stay, I risk everything.
The card was his leverage, but Marcus's tears were a chain.
