Vincent's consciousness drifted back like a boat caught in a sluggish tide, his head throbbing with a dull ache that pulsed behind his eyes.
The motel room was eerily silent, the rain outside reduced to a faint drizzle tapping against the window. He groaned, rubbing his face, the memory of his blurred vision and sudden collapse flickering like a bad dream. His body felt heavy, limbs sluggish, as if he'd been drugged—wait, drugged? His heart lurched as he sat up, the creaky bed springs protesting under him.
"Marcus?" he croaked, his voice rough, scanning the room. The sight that greeted him was a gut punch—the place was stripped bare. Their bags, stuffed with clothes and Vincent's emergency cash for the trip, were gone.
The rickety table stood empty, the tray of food and drinks vanished, even the condom packets the girl had so gleefully advertised. The only remnant was a lone fry stuck to the carpet, a mocking witness to the chaos.
