Chapter 2 - The Silence of the RoomThe violence didn't happen with the messy, frantic desperation of a street fight. It happened with the cold, surgical efficiency of an abattoir.
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, the two men flanking Vincent moved. To my dazed, pain-fogged eyes, they didn't look like they were running; they looked like they were teleporting.
The first enforcer—a mountain of a man with a jagged scar running down his neck—crossed the living room distance in two strides. Marcus tried to throw a wild, panicked punch, but the enforcer ducked under it effortlessly, grabbed Marcus’s right wrist with one hand, and delivered a devastating, piston-like knee strike straight into Marcus’s midsection.
The sickening sound of air violently evacuating Marcus’s lungs filled the room. A geyser of spit and bile erupted from his mouth as he doubled over, his eyes bulging with sheer, unadulterated terror.
"Get—get off me!" Marcus choked out, his knees buckling.
The second enforcer grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing more than a jacket, and slammed him face-first against the living room wall. The drywall cracked, plaster dust exploding into the air like a mini snowstorm.
"Don't touch the furniture," Vincent said quietly, stepping over the broken glass on the floor. His polished leather shoes clicked against the tiles as he walked past the wreckage of our cheap couch, his eyes never leaving my face.
He stopped right at the threshold of the bathroom, looking down at my torn blouse, the swelling bruises on my face, and most importantly, the unnatural, dangling angle of my left arm.
The air between us felt heavy, charged with an electric tension that made my skin prickle.
"Lena," Vincent said, his voice dropping its terrifying edge, softening into something almost gentle, though it still carried the weight of an oncoming storm. "Can you stand?"
I nodded slowly, tears finally spilling over my lashes, cutting clean tracks through the grime and blood on my cheeks. "I... I think so."
Without a word of warning, Vincent reached out. His hands—warm, steady, and impossibly strong—gently cupped my good shoulder, guiding me away from the wall. He moved with a practiced care that shocked me; a man built for destruction handled me as if I were made of blown glass.
"You're safe now," he murmured, pulling me just enough to shield my eyes from the living room.
Behind us, Marcus was gasping for air, pinned against the cracked drywall by the throat. "Who... who are you people? Please... take whatever money we have! Take the TV! Just let me go!"
Vincent didn't turn around. He kept his eyes locked on mine, checking every detail of my face, assessing the damage with the clinical eye of a field medic.
"Money?" Vincent asked aloud, his tone dripping with a quiet, icy disdain. He finally glanced back over his shoulder at Marcus, who was clawing frantically at the enforcer's massive forearm. "You think this is about money?"
"Then what is it?!" Marcus shrieked, panic cracking his voice into a high-pitched squeak. "She's just a waitress! She's a nobody! You can't kill a man over a waitress!"
Vincent's expression hardened into something carved out of obsidian.
"She called my phone," Vincent said, each word landing like a lead weight. "And you answered by breaking her bones in my ear. In my world, that isn't a domestic dispute. That’s an invitation."
Vincent signaled with a flick of his wrist.
The enforcer holding Marcus didn't punch him. Instead, he simply twisted Marcus’s arm behind his back and shoved him forward, forcing him down onto his knees right at Vincent’s feet. Marcus whimpered, his face pressed against the dusty carpet, his arrogant facade completely shattered.
Vincent looked down at him the way a scientist might look at a particularly foul specimen under a microscope.
"You spent five years teaching her how to disappear inside her own home," Vincent said softly, stepping closer until the toe of his shoe brushed Marcus’s chin. "Tell me... did you ever stop to think about what would happen when she finally reappeared?"
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Marcus trembled violently, unable to speak, his teeth chattering as reality finally set in.
"Pack a bag, Lena," Vincent said, turning his attention back to me, his voice instantly softening again. "We're leaving."
