Crimson Ties

Saturday, October 12, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

132 Fletcher Lanes apartment

Early morning

Vince arrived at the apartment, a modest brick building nestled in a quieter corner of Selbury, Bog Bay City. The street outside was dimly lit, the pale glow of streetlights reflecting off puddles from an earlier rain. The building's façade was weathered but sturdy, its red bricks darkened with age. A faded green awning hung above the front entrance, partially shielding the worn steps leading to the door. A small, rusted mailbox stood to one side, the name "V. Carter" etched faintly on one of the slots. Despite its unassuming exterior, the place exuded a certain warmth, a sense of refuge amid the urban sprawl.

Vince balanced Hannah carefully as he reached for his keys, the jangling sound echoing faintly in the quiet street. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped inside, his boots tapping softly against the tiled hallway floor. The scent of old wood and faint cleaning detergent lingered in the air. The building was clean but simple, with walls painted in neutral beige and a series of framed black-and-white photographs of Bog Bay's landmarks lining the corridor. A faint hum from the radiator added a layer of calm to the otherwise silent space.

The elevator was ancient, its creaky doors groaning as Vince hit the button for the third floor. The ride was slow, each floor marked with a dull ding, but he waited patiently, adjusting his hold on Hannah as her head leaned against his chest.

Reaching his apartment, Vince unlocked the door to his sanctuary. The inside reflected his practical nature: a small but efficiently laid-out space. The living room was neat, with a worn but comfortable gray couch against one wall and a modest coffee table in front of it. A stack of case files rested neatly on one corner of the table, alongside an empty coffee mug. To the side, a small bookshelf held a mix of novels, crime manuals, and a few decorative items like a framed photo and a snow globe from his childhood.

The kitchen, visible from the living area, was compact but functional. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the soft light, and a half-full dish rack sat beside the sink. Beyond the living room, a narrow hallway led to his bedroom and a small bathroom. The space was minimalist but felt lived-in—a reflection of someone who valued purpose over extravagance.

Vince carried Hannah across the threshold, his steps measured and careful. She was still sound asleep, her exhaustion evident. He made his way past the living room and down the hall to his bedroom. The space was just as simple as the rest of the apartment, with neutral tones, a small bedside table, and a neatly made bed with dark gray sheets.

Gently, Vince lowered Hannah onto the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress. She stirred faintly, a soft moan escaping her lips, but she didn't wake. Vince pulled the blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders, his movements careful and precise.

The bathroom was eerily silent except for the relentless hiss of the shower, its thin veil of steam curling around the cracked tiles and dim fluorescent light. Vince stood motionless, his breath uneven, the faint fog on the mirror catching the tired edges of his weathered face. His shirt clung to his torso, streaked with blood both fresh and dried. He grabbed the hem and peeled it off, wincing as the fabric stuck briefly to a gash across his ribs. The bruises, blooming in deep purples and sickly yellows, spread like shadows across his skin, each one a testament to the battle he'd just survived.

His gaze drifted up to the cracked mirror, catching his own hollow reflection. For a moment, he hesitated. The world seemed to shift, the steam thickening into an oppressive fog. His pupils dilated as his vision twisted—

Black and white.

The surrounding bathroom faded into pitch darkness, replaced by the haunting image of a flaming jeep overturned on scorched ground. The sound of crackling flames filled his ears as smoke coiled like a living thing in the suffocating void. On the ground, Vince crawled on his stomach, his nails scraping against unseen grit as he dragged himself closer to the wreckage.

"Help me," came a voice—fragile yet sharp, cutting through the chaos like broken glass.

Beneath the jeep, pinned by its twisted frame, lay a girl. Her pale skin glowed faintly, her long dark hair fanning out like ink spilled on the blackened ground. Her eyes—hollow, empty, accusing—pierced into his soul, their void-like depths pulling at him. She looked almost ghostly, her torn dress fluttering despite the still air, her lips trembling as she spoke again.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispered, her voice cracked but laced with venom.

Vince's hand reached out, trembling, his fingers stretching toward her. His throat was tight, his voice caught in a strangled gasp.

"Ashley..."

The flames roared higher, licking at the edges of her form, and she screamed—a sound that ricocheted through the black void like a banshee's wail. Vince's body froze, paralyzed in the moment.

Suddenly, the vision shattered.

Vince jolted back, gasping, his knuckles gripping the edge of the sink as if the world might crumble beneath him. His reflection came into focus again, but something was wrong. The image staring back at him was not quite his own.

The Vince in the mirror smiled—lips twisting upward into a jagged grin far too wide, like a grotesque mockery of humanity. His eyes burned with an unnatural glow: irises blood-red, encased in inky black sclera that pulsed faintly like they were alive. The grin stretched wider, almost splitting his face in half, his head tilting slightly, predator-like.

"You're back," Vince muttered under his breath, his voice shaking but firm. "I dealt with you. I made sure of it. How?"

The reflection chuckled, a low, guttural sound that reverberated in the tiny room, filling the space with an unnatural chill. When it spoke, its voice was layered—deep, distorted, and crawling with malice.

"I am you," it rasped, each word dripping with venom. "And you are me. We are one. You cannot kill what you are, Vince, just as I cannot exist without you."

"Shut up," Vince snapped, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the sink tightened. His breath quickened, and the air seemed to thicken, growing heavier with each second.

The reflection leaned closer, its grin widening, the crimson glow of its eyes piercing through the dim light. "You can try to run, to bury me, to pretend I don't exist. But I'm always here, Vince. In every breath. Every thought. Every—"

"SHUT UP!" Vince roared, squeezing his eyes shut, the veins on his temples bulging as he clenched his jaw.

When he opened his eyes, everything was normal.

The mirror reflected only him—tired, battered, and human. His jaw quivered as he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of memory.

"I'm sorry, Ashley."

The hiss of the shower was the only reply, masking the heavy silence that followed.

I look like hell, he thought, rubbing a hand over his face. The rough texture of his skin matched the worn, unpolished version of himself staring back. He noticed the faint tremor in his hand and clenched it into a fist. Stop. What were you thinking out there?

He turned, shrugging off the rest of his clothes, and stepped into the shower. The water hit his skin hard, washing away the blood and grime from the fight, but not the weight of it. He leaned against the tiled wall, his muscles aching as the memory of the brawl replayed in his mind.

The thug had been massive, all brute strength and blind aggression. Vince could still feel the shock of the man's fists slamming into him, the jarring impact that had nearly sent him sprawling. Too slow, he thought bitterly, his grip tightening on the showerhead. He'd underestimated his opponent and paid for it, narrowly avoiding a knockout that would have left Hannah at their mercy.

You've gone soft, he admitted to himself. The years had crept up on him, wearing down his once-sharp edge. His shoulders were broader than most, but the definition wasn't what it used to be. His chest and arms, though muscular, carried a softness that whispered of neglected routines. Sitting in the car, chasing leads, doesn't count as training, he scolded himself.

He touched his ribs gingerly, wincing at the sharp sting beneath his fingertips. Lucky. That's all tonight was. Just dumb luck.

Vince let the water pound against his shoulders as his thoughts shifted. He remembered how fast the thug had moved, how raw power had almost overwhelmed him. If he hadn't relied on strategy—waiting for the right moment to strike, to disarm him—things could have gone very differently. You can't keep skating by on instinct alone. It won't save you every time.

His jaw tightened as a resolve began to form. He straightened, letting the water hit his face, obscuring his reflection in the foggy mirror across the room. Tomorrow, he'd start over. He'd push himself like he used to, retrain his body to be faster, stronger, sharper.

Because tonight had proven one thing: peaceful moments in his line of work were a dangerous illusion. And he wasn't the kind of man who relied on illusions. Not when there was someone else's life at stake.

He shut off the water, stepping out and reaching for a towel. His eyes lingered briefly on his reflection once more. He didn't see exhaustion anymore. He saw determination, etched in every line of his face. No more mistakes, he thought. Not next time.

Vince glanced at the wall-mounted clock, its hands inching toward dawn. Morning was creeping in, the faint light softening the edges of the room. His exhaustion was a heavy weight, but there was one last thing to address before he could rest.

He stepped into the bedroom, his eyes falling on Hannah. She was still asleep, her form curled on his bed. The academy uniform she wore was torn and grimy, a stark reminder of everything she'd been through. Vince hesitated for a moment, then sighed.

Carefully, he retrieved one of his oversized button-up shirt and a pair of clean sweatpants from his drawer. With utmost care and discretion, he quickly changed her into the clean clothes, mindful of her injuries and privacy. Once done, he adjusted the blanket over her, ensuring she was comfortable.

Then he walked over to his desk and grabbed his phone, dialing the number he knew by heart. The phone rang a few times before James picked up, sounding as laid-back as ever.

"Detective," James greeted, voice tinged with amusement. "You finally survive the night?"

Vince let out a half-laugh. "Barely. Had to clean up some mess. Got a few guys for you to pick up." He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair.

"Sounds like another typical Tuesday for you," James said, the chuckle evident in his voice. "Who are we talking about this time?"

"Three thugs, 1 dead, 2 alives. They're tied up and waiting for you at a warehouse near Maple Leaf Park," Vince said, keeping his tone business-like.

"Gotcha. I'll send a team over. You good?" James asked, his voice dropping into a more serious tone.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little worn out," Vince replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Just need you to wrap it up."

"Alright, I'll take care of it. You should get some rest. Looks like you've earned it."

Vince smiled faintly, a dry humor flickering in his eyes. "I'll sleep when it's over."

"That's what I thought you'd say," James muttered. "Stay safe."

After a brief pause, Vince hung up the phone and set it down on the desk. He stared at it for a second, rubbing his tired eyes. Sleep was a luxury, but for now, all he could do was get through the night.

Vince backed out of the room. The events of the night tugged at him with every step, but he forced himself to the sofa. Sinking into its cushions, he draped an arm over his eyes and let out a weary sigh.

Sleep claimed him quickly, though it was restless—his mind replaying flashes of the fight, the kidnappers, and the fragile girl now resting in his bed.

Somewhere

The room was bathed in darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow of distant stars. Outside the high-rise window, the world below looked like a sprawling sea of lights, the city's pulse flickering beneath the vast, ink-black sky. The air was cool and crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. It was quiet—too quiet, as though the night itself was holding its breath.

From the far corner of the room, a shadow moved. The figure was a silhouette against the soft light, the details of his form hidden in the darkness. His hands, slender and controlled, moved with precision across the polished chessboard. The pieces, dark and light, stood like soldiers on the battlefield, each one poised for the next move.

A low voice broke the silence, a faint rustling as a figure approached from behind. "He got the girl," the lackey said, his voice low but urgent. The words hung in the air like a declaration.

The shadow didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the intrusion. His fingers, long and elegant, slid a pawn across the board with calculated ease. The piece moved forward, its position now closer to victory.

"Good," the black figure said, his voice calm and cold, a slight rasp in it. "It has begun."

He didn't need to say more. The words, simple and to the point, were enough. The game was in motion now. Every move mattered, every piece falling into place. The girl was just the first step. The plan was unfolding exactly as he'd intended.

The lackey lingered for a moment longer, unsure if he should speak. The room remained still, save for the occasional sound of the chess pieces shifting and the quiet hum of the city below. The stars above continued to glitter, indifferent to the lives about to be altered by the game that was just starting.