The room pulsed with neon light and heavy bass, a haze of smoke clinging to the air like a second skin. Vincent was in his element, sprawled on a cracked leather couch with a girl perched on his lap, her laughter spilling warm against his neck. His grin was careless, his hands wandering with shameless ease. To anyone watching, he was the picture of a man enjoying himself.
But Marcus wasn't watching like anyone else.
He stood at the far edge of the room, half-shadowed, glass clutched in his hand. His eyes weren't soft anymore, not confused, not dreamy. They were sharp, narrowed, following every subtle movement like a hawk circling prey.
The girl's manicured hand trailed across Vincent's thigh. Higher. Higher. Vincent chuckled, tipping his head back, oblivious to the storm brewing a few feet away.
Marcus's grip on the glass tightened. His knuckles whitened, his palm pressed so firmly against the fragile rim that it gave a faint warning creak. Still he didn't loosen.
The girl leaned in closer, whispering something against Vincent's ear, her hand now boldly cupping his bulge. Vincent laughed—louder, more reckless, like the whole world was a joke meant only for him.
And then—
SNAP.
The glass shattered in Marcus's fist. A sudden rain of shards clattered onto the floor, sharp edges glittering under the dim light. Blood welled instantly, running thick between his fingers, dark and glistening.
The sound silenced the room. Music kept playing, but conversation died. Every head turned toward the broken glass, toward the young man with blood dripping freely down his hand.
Vincent's chuckle faltered mid-breath. His eyes darted from Marcus's hand to his face. For the first time, there was nothing innocent in Marcus's expression. No softness. No confusion. Only a quiet, seething possession—something primal, something that froze the air.
Marcus lifted his hand, smearing blood casually across his own neck like it was war paint. The act wasn't clumsy; it was deliberate. His eyes never left Vincent, not for a second.
A ripple of unease moved through the room. The girl on Vincent's lap stiffened, her hand retreating instantly. When Marcus's gaze finally slid to her, just once, her legs wobbled as if her body remembered survival instinct faster than her mind did. She stood without a word, stumbling backward.
No one dared to block Marcus's path when he stepped forward. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath the drag of his boots, blood droplets marking a crimson trail. He stopped in front of Vincent, who still hadn't moved—half stunned, half curious, his usual smirk thin and nervous.
"Marcus—" Vincent began, his voice forced into lightness, but Marcus didn't let him finish.
He reached down, grabbed Vincent's hand with his bloodied one, and yanked. His grip was steel, impossible to resist. Warm blood slicked their joined palms, running down Vincent's wrist, staining his skin.
Vincent tried to mask his surprise with another chuckle, but it came out uneven. "Cariño, you're bleeding everywhere—"
Marcus didn't answer. He dragged him, fast, ruthless. Vincent stumbled to keep pace, practically hauled across the room like he weighed nothing. The crowd parted instinctively, faces pale, no one daring to intervene. Fear hung heavy, thicker than smoke.
Marcus's boots stopped before a locked door at the end of the hallway. He didn't knock. Didn't hesitate. His leg snapped forward in a vicious kick, splintering the wood as the door banged open.
Inside, a man and woman froze mid-motion, tangled in each other's clothes and sweat. Their mouths dropped open at the sight: Marcus, blood dripping, eyes blazing, Vincent dragged helplessly in his grip.
Marcus's stare landed on them for half a second—just half—and that was enough. The couple scrambled like prey under the gaze of a predator. They yanked on clothes, stumbling out past Marcus, too terrified to breathe near him.
The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made the walls tremble.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Vincent hit the bed hard, a loud thud against the thin mattress that barely absorbed the impact. He propped himself up on his elbows, his easy charm wiped clean by shock. His chest rose and fell in sharp breaths.
Marcus stood by the door for a moment, shoulders heaving, blood dripping from his hand in steady drops that stained the cheap carpet. His entire body radiated something wild, coiled tight.
When his gaze snapped to Vincent, it was no longer the gaze of a confused young man. It was a predator's focus—hunger barely restrained, danger trembling just beneath the skin.
Vincent forced a grin, though it quivered. "You know, cariño, most people use words when they're upset."
Marcus didn't answer. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. Slowly, he stepped forward, each stride deliberate, measured, like a lion closing in on prey that had nowhere left to run.
The room seemed to shrink with each step. The shadows deepened, the noise outside the door vanished. It was just the two of them now, predator and prey.
Vincent's usual cocky laugh wouldn't come. He sat frozen, his smirk broken, caught between unease and something else he couldn't name.
Marcus stopped at the edge of the bed, his bloodied hand hanging at his side, the smell of iron sharp in the air. His eyes bore into Vincent's with an intensity that stripped him bare, peeled away every mask.
And then—he tilted his head, slow, deliberate, gaze dripping with hunger he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.
It wasn't the look of a lost, gentle boy. It wasn't even the look of a jealous lover.
It was the look of a predator, poised at the brink, savoring the moment before the pounce.
Vincent swallowed hard. For the first time since they met, he wasn't sure if he was the one in control anymore.
And Marcus… Marcus looked like he was about to devour him.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH HUNGER .. AND I MEAN THE HUNGER,
MARCUS. 😏🦁
WITH ... I DON'T KNOW .. ( HE'S TREMBLING GUYS ! ) ,
VINCENT.😖🐁