The streetlamps flickered faintly against the cracked pavement as Vincent stormed up, his stolen motorcycle still humming behind him. He grabbed Marcus by the arm, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind? I told you to stay put! You think I got all night to play hide-and-seek with some clueless rich boy?"
Marcus blinked at him with those oddly serene eyes, tilting his head like a child trying to solve a puzzle. His lips parted softly.
"...Who are you?"
The words hit Vincent harder than a punch. For a second, he thought Marcus was messing with him. But the expression—calm, vacant, yet oddly tender—was too real.
Vincent let out a dry laugh, masking his unease.
"Don't start with me, cariño [ honey in spanish ]. You know damn well who I am. I broke into your palace, uncuffed you like a goddamn hero, and now you're acting brand new?"
Marcus just stood there, confusion softening his features. Vincent cursed under his breath, dragging him back to the curb. He sat Marcus down, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Alright. Let's run this back for your scrambled brain. I break in. You're cuffed. You tell me you'll pay ten grand for freedom. Generous, really. Then I, being the saint I am, release you. Got it?"
Marcus frowned faintly, the way someone does when they've lost half the pieces to a puzzle.
Vincent smirked, leaning closer.
"Actually… make that twenty grand. You promised me twenty. Ring any bells?"
Marcus's eyes softened with recognition—false recognition. He nodded as if it all made sense.
"Oh .. okay , what's your name by the way"
Vincent's grin widened, teeth flashing. Too easy.
"Vincent ... call me vincee, cariño"
Marcus nodded taking a notes from his pocket and writing his name and details.
* Vincent- petty thief
Broke in < released cuff < need to pay twenty grand *
Vincent watching him with amuse and pity
[ NOTE : I RECREATED THIS SCENE IN THIS CHAPTER TOO FOR CONTINUATION AND EASY READING NOT FOR WORDS COUNT ]
---
They walked together down the dim street, Vincent keeping his hands shoved in his pockets, glancing at Marcus from the corner of his eye.
"So tell me something, sunshine. Who the hell is Tom? You keep saying that name like it's tattooed on my forehead."
Marcus's steps slowed. His voice dropped to a hush, intimate and strangely vulnerable.
"Tom is… my boyfriend. He keeps me safe. Locks me in so I don't… wander."
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
"Locks you in? Jesus. That's kinky as hell."
Marcus didn't smile. Instead, he looked at the ground, voice trembling.
"I forget things. Important things. Sometimes I leave the house and… I don't come back. I get lost. Tom says it's for my own good. The handcuffs. The window. The routine."
Vincent let out a low whistle, tilting his head.
"So what, you're telling me you're… broken upstairs?"
Marcus glanced at him with quiet honesty.
"I have Alzheimer's. Early onset. It takes pieces of me every day. Tom… he tries to hold me together."
Vincent didn't answer right away. Something twisted inside him, a flicker of pity, but he stomped it down quick. Pity never paid the bills. Money did. And this guy had promised him twenty grand.
---
The glow of an ATM lit the corner of the street. Marcus stopped in front of it like a soldier obeying orders. Vincent leaned against the wall, cocky grin plastered on his face.
"Alright, rules are simple. No cheap tricks, no funny business. Just give me the whole twenty grand, crisp and clean."
Marcus nodded, pulling out his sleek black card. His hands trembled slightly, but when he touched the machine, a strange calm overtook him. His fingers moved with practiced certainty, pressing the numbers with automatic grace.
Vincent narrowed his eyes.
"Huh. Thought you said your memory was swiss cheese. How the hell do you remember the numbers?"
Marcus gave a small, almost dreamy smile, eyes locked on the glowing screen.
"I don't know… but when I stand here, the code comes back to me. My body remembers even when my mind doesn't. It's like the machine whispers to me."
Vincent scoffed, arms crossed.
"Creepy. But as long as it works."
His gaze drifted lazily over Marcus—sharp jawline, pale throat, delicate wrists still faintly bruised from the cuffs. The kind of beauty that made trouble taste sweet. He smirked at the thought of what would be like having him on bed ...he knows desiring for committed is wrong , but imagining pretty boy in mind isn't illegal, even it is ? Who cares !
But then—his eyes caught the ATM screen.
For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating. He leaned closer, squinting.
Not thousands.
Not even hundreds of thousands.
Millions.
The balance was stacked with so many zeroes Vincent's brain almost short-circuited. He forgot to breathe, forgot to blink. His grin fell, replaced with raw disbelief.
"What the… fuck." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "How does some forgetful, soft-spoken pretty boy with Alzheimer's have that much cash just sitting there?"
The machine beeped, waiting for confirmation. Marcus glanced over his shoulder, still calm, still smiling faintly.
"Is something wrong, vincent ?"
Vincent's pulse thundered in his ears. For the first time in years, he had no slick comeback. Just one burning thought:
Who the hell is this man I just freed?
---------
PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH ETC ETC FEELINGS SWIRLING ,
VINCENT. 😶