The club smelled like cheap perfume, sweat, and money. Austin leaned across the sticky table, his voice low and deliberate, while Vincent's eyes weren't even on him. A pair of long legs passed by, the glitter of sequins catching the neon. Vincent gave a wolf-whistle, twirling the empty whiskey glass in his hand.
Austin leaned across the sticky table, brows furrowed, while Vincent wasn't even pretending to listen. His eyes followed the sway of a dancer's hips as she passed, glitter sticking to her bare shoulders.
"You hear me, Vince?" Austin snapped his fingers in front of his face.
Vincent grinned lazily. "Loud and clear, boss. Something about money, a house, and me getting rich. The usual fairytale."
Austin's stare hardened. "Not a fairytale. Holloway Lane. Family's gone on vacation. You get in, you get out. Cameras on the gate are fake but don't get sloppy. Don't improvise."
Vincent leaned back, hands behind his head, smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't improvise? Austin, improvising is my art form."
The dancer on stage flipped her hair, catching Vincent's eye. He blew her a kiss. She laughed, shaking her head.
Austin pinched the bridge of his nose. "This isn't a joke. You're not twenty anymore. You can't keep treating every job like a joyride."
Vincent leaned forward suddenly, tapping Austin's glass with his own. "Correction: I'm twenty-five. Quarter of a century, baby. And nothing's caught me yet. You should be grateful—I bring the luck, you bring the plan. We're unstoppable."
Austin didn't smile. "Seventy-thirty. My plan, my cut."
Vincent clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. Betrayed by my own childhood buddy. What's next, you gonna sell me to the Russians?"
"Keep talking," Austin muttered, but his eyes said he wasn't amused.
Vincent, though, never stopped. He draped an arm around a passing waitress's waist .. pulled her to his lap,slide his hand in her thighs, plucked an olive from her tray, and popped it in his mouth with a wink. "Relax. Nothing ever goes wrong for me. Haven't you noticed? I always land on my feet."
Austin leaned close, voice a low growl. "One of these days, you won't."
Vincent's grin only widened.
---
The night air was cooler than the sweat-soaked club. Vincent straddled his stolen motorcycle, helmet tilted at a cocky angle. He revved the engine once, the sound echoing through the empty street, then pulled away with a roar.
Halfway to Holloway Lane, his grin faltered.
What the hell had Austin said? Something about a red door? Or was it green shutters?
He slowed, biting his lip. "Shit."
Details bored him. He remembered the strippers' perfume more clearly than the description of the target house. Typical.
Vincent stopped at a crossroads, tapping the handlebars with restless fingers. Then an idea sparked. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket, lit it, and crouched down.
The glowing tip flared in the dark. He set it gently on the pavement, watching as the wind caught it, rolling it to the right until it stopped, pointing like an arrow.
Vincent laughed, wild and reckless. "Fate's a bitch, but she's on my side.Well, well. Lady Luck's still with me. Right it is."
He pocketed his lighter, kicked the bike to life, and followed the direction fate had chosen.
---
The house loomed quiet at the end of the lane. Large, but not a mansion. Lights off. Curtains drawn. The kind of place that wanted to be unnoticed.
Vincent parked a street away, slipping into the shadows. He tugged his gloves tight, every move practiced but laced with his usual cocky rhythm, like he was about to perform on a stage.
A quick glance at the gate—no real cameras, Austin was right. Vincent slid along the hedge, finding a side window. Locked. Easy.
He flicked a thin blade from his pocket, tongue peeking out in concentration as he jiggled the latch. Click. Smooth as silk.
Slipping inside, he landed softly, like a cat. He froze, ears straining. No footsteps. No alarms. Just silence.Every step was calculated: heel, toe, heel, toe. He avoided the obvious creaks in the wooden floor, listening, waiting for alarms, voices, anything. But the house was still.
He moved through the house like a shadow, careful, patient. It felt… different. Not like a family's vacation home. Too still. Too heavy, like the air itself held its breath.
Then he saw it.
By the wide window, chained like a prisoner, was a man.
Vincent froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.
Not old. Not battered. No—young. Strikingly young. Black hair falling messily over his forehead, skin pale as porcelain, lips faintly parted in sleep. His wrists gleamed with silver cuffs locked to iron rings drilled into the wall.
Vincent's heart stuttered, then quickened. This wasn't a robbery anymore. This was… something else.
"What the actual fuck," he whispered, eyes darting around the room. Was this some kind of sick joke? A hostage situation? A kink gone wrong?
The man's eyes were closed, breathing was not sure to find from distance he walked near the man.
Vincent crouched, cautiously. He hesitated, then leaned forward and slipped two fingers under the stranger's nose. Warm breath touched his skin, steady. Relief slid through him.
He should leave. He should leave. But instead, his hand wavered, his pinky brushing over soft lips.
The man's eyes snapped open.
Blue. Cold, piercing, like icewater flooding Vincent's veins.
Vincent jerked back, stumbling. His hand flew to the knife in his pocket—
—but the man didn't scream. Didn't flinch.
Instead, he smiled. Calm. Gentle, even.
And with a voice like silk tearing, he whispered one word:
"Tom?"
-------
PLEASE SUPPORT BEAUTIFUL LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH CONFUSION ,
VINCENT....