The night outside the motel had gone still.
No cars. No wind. Just silence thick enough to choke on.
Inside the room, Vincent slept unnaturally deep, his body loose, his lips parted in a soft breath. The red light filtering through the blinds pulsed faintly across his skin, making him look almost fragile.
Marcus lay beside him, eyes wide open. He hadn't slept at all. He didn't even look tired.
He watched the slow rise and fall of Vincent's chest one, two, three then exhaled softly.
A faint smirk crossed his lips.
Not one of affection. One of recognition.
As if a mask had finally cracked open to reveal what had always been beneath.
He slid out of bed soundlessly. The mattress didn't even shift.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath as he reached for Vincent's jacket, the one tossed carelessly over the chair. Marcus hooked it on one finger, the fabric hanging loose from his shoulder like an afterthought or a warning.
He glanced back once. Vincent's face turned slightly in sleep, a whisper of confusion flickering across his brow. But he didn't wake.
Not after that beer.
Marcus's smile deepened.
He turned and left.
---
The hallway was drowned in red shadows. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, deliberate thud the kind of sound that feels like a seal breaking.
Downstairs, the bar had gone dead quiet. Only a few scattered bottles glittered under the dying neon. The air smelled of beer, smoke, and something faintly metallic.
Then faint noises.
A woman's breathless laugh behind one of the doors, followed by a muffled groan, the kind that dripped exhaustion more than pleasure.
Marcus's steps didn't falter. He walked past without so much as a glance, eyes set ahead, the hum of darkness moving with him.
Near the staircase, a small toolbox sat open forgotten, tools spilling over the floor.
His gaze landed on a hammer.
Old, heavy, its handle rough from use.
He bent down, picked it up, and twirled it lightly in his hand. The movement was fluid too familiar.
The hammer spun once, twice metal glinting in the light and landed neatly across his palm, balanced perfectly as though it remembered him.
Outside, the street was empty.
A lamppost flickered over a puddle, casting fragments of gold and shadow across the cracked pavement.
A few stray dogs barked from the distance then quieted, tails lowering when he looked their way.
Marcus walked to the lamppost, sat on the low edge of the sidewalk, and leaned back one arm resting on his knee, hammer balanced in the other hand. He looked almost casual. Almost.
From the inside of his boot, he pulled out a phone sleek, dark, a reflection of his own precision.
He didn't scroll through contacts. Didn't hesitate.
His thumb moved over the keypad like it was muscle memory, entering a number from the back of his mind.
The call connected before it could even ring twice.
The line didn't breathe. The other side waited silent.
Marcus's voice was nothing like the one Vincent knew.
It was lower, rougher a sound born of steel grinding against stone.
"Next victim?"
The reply came instantly, clean and unshaken.
"Theodore Armani."
Marcus tilted his head slightly.
"Which one?"
The person on other side replies with precision, no bullashitting , no nonsense ,"The T & A Fashion owner's son. Only child."
Marcus's smile cut through the dark like a knife.
"Finally," he murmured. "A big shot."
Then, laughing softly humorless, sharp —
"This is going to be interesting."
He ended the call with a flick of his thumb. The click echoed unnaturally loud, bouncing off the empty street.
He sat there for a second still, eyes glinting faintly under the yellow light.
Then he dialed another number.
One ring. Picked up.
Same silence. Same obedience.
"Assign Christopher to Olivia," Marcus said, tone calm but venom-slick.
"Let him toy with his little deer until she gets tired of chasing the lion."
The person on the other end made a faint, uncertain sound almost a question.
Marcus didn't wait.
"You heard me," he said quietly. "Don't make me repeat myself."
And then the line went dead.
The hammer twirled again in his hand a hypnotic rhythm, gleaming in the faint glow of the streetlight.
He leaned back, the cold concrete biting through his shirt. Above him, the clouds had shifted, revealing a sliver of moon pale and indifferent.
Marcus tilted his face upward, eyes half-lidded, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to show teeth.
"You should sleep well, Vincent," he murmured to no one. "Tomorrow… the real game begins."
A car passed at the far end of the road, headlights washing briefly over him.
For a second, it illuminated everything the hammer, the smirk, the jacket hanging like a shadow over his shoulder.
Then darkness returned, swallowing him whole.
And somewhere, far behind him, in that dimly lit room
Vincent turned in his sleep, murmuring something soft, unaware of the storm already forming under his name.
When Marcus stood again, his steps made no sound. The hammer swung lightly by his side. His shadow stretched far across the pavement, swallowing every trace of humanity left in his wake.
The night obeyed him.
The silence bowed to him.
And with that the game truly began.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH DARKNESS LOOMIN — Nah author ! I'm the darkness itself
Author : yeah that's right !
WITH DARKNESS,
MARCUS .😏
WITH DEEP SLUMBER — My sleeping handsome🖤
Author : He's talkative today ..🫠
WITH DEEP SLUMBER,
VINCENT 😴
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Author : hey guys ! This our first interaction, check out the Author's note and leave out your valuable comments 😀