The green glow of the ATM screen lit up Marcus's face, soft and unassuming, while Vincent lounged casually against the machine, chewing at his lip ring. He had just witnessed the number—the kind of number that could buy small countries, sink rival gangs, or make even the stingiest mafia boss cry with envy. His heart had skipped, thumped, then nearly broken his ribs when his eyes traced over those impossible digits.
Millions. Not one, not two. Multiple.
But Vincent wasn't stupid. If he lunged too fast, the prize would vanish. So he did what he always did best: played dumb.
Marcus tapped slowly, his hands steady despite everything he had confessed about his condition. A slip of paper fluttered out, followed by neat stacks of cash. He turned with a smile so calm it almost felt wrong in the dirty neon glow of the machine.
"Here," Marcus said softly, holding out twenty thousand in neat, crisp bills. "As promised."
Vincent cocked a brow, took the bundle, and fanned the bills like a magician. "Huh. Guess honesty isn't completely extinct. You're full of surprises, pretty boy."
Marcus chuckled, though faint, as if laughter wasn't a regular guest in his chest. "Thank you… for freeing me."
Vincent froze. Not because of the money. Not because of the surreal situation. But because of the words. Nobody thanked Vincent. Not the cops. Not his supposed friends. Not the women he stole from. He was used to curses, kicks, and handcuffs. Gratitude? That was an alien language.
He masked the twist in his chest with a grin. "Don't sweat it. You're lucky I was bored enough to play knight in shining armor today."
Marcus smiled at that, like he believed him, and tucked his wallet back into his pocket. He turned on his heel, his gait calm and unhurried, as though the world wasn't out to trick or eat him alive.
"Whoa, whoa." Vincent reached out, fingers circling Marcus's wrist before he could take another step. "Where're you going, Cariño?"
Marcus looked at him with those confused but oddly serene eyes. "Across the city. My relative lives there. I should… go before it's too late"
Vincent tilted his head, studying him. The guy said it so simply, like it was nothing. Like he wasn't a walking target with his wallet stuffed with more cash than Vincent had ever seen in his entire criminal career
"Uh-huh." Vincent gave a low whistle. "Lemme get this straight. You're planning to just… walk? Across the damn city? Alone? With that brain of yours that can't even hold on to my name for more than ten minutes? That's not dangerous that's reckless ! A straight damn walk towards your grave hole"
A flicker of hurt crossed Marcus's features, but he said nothing.
Vincent leaned closer, letting his voice drop into that cocky, teasing lilt. "Cariño, you'd get lost before you hit the next street. Some gang of lowlifes would eat you alive, and you wouldn't even remember their faces to curse them."
Marcus frowned, unsure, clearly wavering.
"Lucky for you…" Vincent leaned back, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets, flashing the grin that got him into as much trouble as it got him out. "You've got me. And I've got wheels."
Marcus hesitated. "No, I—"
"Yes." Vincent cut him off, already tugging him gently toward the curb where the stolen motorcycle ( he's not gonna admit it anyways ) gleamed under a flickering streetlight. "This beauty's been itching for a passenger. And I can tell she'd look real good with you on the back seat."
"I shouldn't…" Marcus's voice was quiet, trembling with the edges of resistance. "It's too dangerous. I don't even know you and ... and you are an thief"
Vincent winked, tossing a helmet into Marcus's hands. "Hey hey calm down , cariño. I'm a thief not an hunter. That's half the fun."
The man blinked at the helmet, at Vincent, at the motorcycle. His body language screamed hesitance, but Vincent could see it—the way Marcus's grip shifted just slightly on the helmet, the tiny crack in his doubt. People like Marcus, soft and unarmed, always wanted someone else to take the wheel. And Vincent was a damn good driver.
"Come on," Vincent coaxed, his voice low, dangerous, persuasive. "Live a little. Worst case? You hate it. Best case? You'll thank me later."
Marcus's lips parted, uncertainty still dancing on his face. But Vincent had patience, and he had charm, and most importantly, he had leverage—because Marcus had nowhere else to go.
Finally, Marcus sighed, quiet as wind, and slid the helmet on.
"There we go." Vincent smirked, straddling the bike, revving the engine until it growled like a beast. "Knew you'd see reason, sweetheart."
As Marcus climbed onto the seat behind him, Vincent felt the faintest touch against his back. Not tight, not trusting, but there.
The smirk deepened into something sharp, predatory.
This poor fool thinks I'm helping him. Thinks I'm some kind of savior. He doesn't know the game yet. Doesn't know that I'll bleed that shiny card of his dry, drain every last cent, before he even remembers my damn name.
Vincent's naughty hands slide Marcus's stiff thighs for a fraction of second then roared the engine louder, wheels screeching as the bike shot forward into the night.
PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
CUNNING VIBES FROM ,
VINCENT 😉
MARCUS : UHHHH WHAT'S MY NAME..?
VINCENT : MARCUS , SWEETHEART 💖
MARCUS : RIGHT.MARCUS. 😵💫