The sun had long faded, plunging the alley into a murky twilight as Vincent and Marcus stood beside their motorcycle, its tank a hollow shell after hours of fruitless searching for James.
The cracked pavement stretched around them, strewn with cigarette butts, faded flyers, and the faint shimmer of oil puddles reflecting the dying light. The air carried a damp, metallic tang, mingling with the distant hum of a city winding down.
Vincent's legs throbbed from the trek, and his stomach growled a loud, unmistakable rumble that cut through the silence, a stark reminder of their plight.
He turned, his weary eyes catching a beacon across the alley a bar, its neon sign flickering with a seductive glow, casting a warm invitation through the gloom. "Can we go there?" he asked, his voice laced with a hunger that went beyond food, the $50 in his pocket a fragile lifeline.
