Vincent kept his distance, watching from behind a row of forklifts as fire trucks fought the flames still raging inside the warehouse where he had nearly died.
Police officers questioned eyewitnesses, but what concerned him most were the men in black suits scattered among the crowd. Their controlled movements, their discreet exchanges—there was no doubt. Pearson's men.
He tensed, crouching lower behind the containers.
"I can't stay here. If they spot me, I'm done," he thought, forcing himself to move. He slipped through the stacks of old shipping crates, keeping his head down.
Once he had put enough distance between himself and the burning warehouse, he exhaled in relief. His gaze fell to the clothes he had grabbed earlier—a mechanic's uniform, dirt-streaked and stiff with oil stains. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing.
He had found it hanging on the wall of an open warehouse near where he had been watching the chaos. Without hesitation, he had pulled it on, along with an old, grease-stained cap, tugging it low over his head. With luck, it would help him stay unnoticed.
But he had found no shoes.
That was a problem. Snow piled up around the deserted warehouses, and the bitter cold was unforgiving. He knew these industrial districts had high ceilings covering parts of the road, designed to keep forklifts from slipping in the snow, but even then, bare feet weren't an option.
Gritting his teeth, he took his first step onto the freezing ground. "I need shoes, or I'm screwed," he muttered under his breath, moving faster.
As he passed a large dumpster in the back alley of a workshop, his gaze landed on a worn left boot, partially buried in the snow. It looked intact enough.
He grabbed it and slid it onto his foot. It was a tight fit, but it offered some protection.
Now, he needed something for his right foot.
He kept walking, scanning the ground, rifling through trash bins. After several more meters, he spotted a heavy work shoe, scuffed and stiff but solid.
Without a second thought, he slipped it on.
A mismatched pair—a work boot on the left, a sturdy shoe on the right. It wasn't much, but it was better than freezing.
Vincent sighed, then continued through the falling snow, heading toward his apartment.
He kept his head low as he moved through the city.
The towering buildings, the flashing lights—everything felt distant, detached, as if he were walking through a place that no longer belonged to him.
***
After several blocks, he finally reached the apartment building where he had lived for years. A mid-rise complex, comfortable, more expensive than he had liked. Selena had loved it, so he had worked tirelessly to afford it.
Now, it felt like nothing more than a hollow shell of his past life.
He pushed open the entrance door, but the security guard stepped forward, blocking his way.
"Sorry, sir, you can't—" The man stopped mid-sentence, his expression shifting. Recognition sparked in his eyes.
"Oh, my apologies, Mr. Rothvale. I didn't realize…" The guard trailed off, glancing over Vincent's disheveled clothes.
"Yeah, whatever," Vincent muttered, his voice rough from the cold. "I got robbed. Lost my apartment key too."
The guard hesitated. "That's awful, sir. You should speak to Shirley at reception for a replacement." He gestured toward the desk.
Shirley, the receptionist, looked up when Vincent approached. Her eyes flickered with surprise before darting to the security guard. She recognized him immediately, but his ragged appearance made her pause.
The guard gave a slow nod, as if confirming that Vincent belonged here.
Shirley frowned slightly, noticing the way he was shivering. "Are you alright, sir?" she asked, concern edging her voice.
Vincent forced a weak smile. "Just give me my damn key," he muttered, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
Without hesitation, Shirley retrieved a spare key, logging it in the system before handing it to him. He took it, murmuring a quiet thanks, and walked away.
Behind him, he heard her whispering to the guard, questioning his appearance.
He wasted no time reaching the elevator, riding it up to the twentieth floor. The moment he arrived at his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Silence.
It felt wrong.
He had grown used to Selena's voice greeting him, filling the space with warmth, with presence.
But now, there was nothing.
He shut his eyes for a brief moment, a tightness forming in his chest.
Sadness, anger—he wasn't sure which weighed heavier. Maybe disappointment. She had betrayed him, handed him over to be killed, and still, the emptiness of her absence struck him.
Then, the quiet click of another apartment door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. His eyes shot open, and he moved quickly.
He entered his bedroom, opened his closet, and grabbed a change of clothes. Then, he knelt by the dresser, sliding out the false wooden panel beneath one of the drawers.
A hidden stash of cash. Something Selena had never known about.
Vincent counted the bills before exhaling sharply. It wasn't much, but enough to stay off the radar for a few days.
He grabbed his backpack, stuffing it with clothes, important documents, and the cash.
Within minutes, he was ready.
Ready to leave the apartment that had once been his home. Ready to walk away from the five years he had spent with Selena.
***
The streets had emptied as night settled in.
Snow continued falling, soft but relentless, coating the city in a quiet chill.
Vincent walked quickly, his mismatched shoes pressing into the slush beneath him. His feet still ached from the hours he had spent trudging through the cold earlier.
But he didn't stop.
His eyes stayed sharp, scanning every alley, every street corner for signs of Pearson's men.
He had no intention of getting caught again.
After several more blocks, he spotted a dim neon sign flickering in the distance.
Motel Stardust - Cheap Rates, No Reservation Needed.
Relief washed over him.
He picked up his pace, eager to step off the exposed streets before someone recognized him.