Vincent sat at the bar, the neon lights from the club’s sign still flashing through the windows. Nearly 4 AM and the place lay deserted except for leftover cups and bottles strewn across the room. His usual spot by the counter was dimly lit, a perfect hideaway from the world outside, the world he no longer felt connected to.


    The club wasn’t glamorous—just another place for those looking to drown their sorrows in booze. The air was thick with the stench of stale alcohol, but it was better than being home. He couldn’t stay in the family house anymore; it made him sick to his stomach. Every corner of that mansion reeked of betrayal and power struggles. His name, his blood, didn’t feel like a blessing anymore—it felt like a curse.


    He took another swig from his bottle, barely noticing the bitter burn of the vodka anymore. His thoughts drifted to his sister, to the way she was leaving to explore a dangerous dungeon. And now, Cynthia’s brother, Sabir, was being brought along, headed toward a dungeon with the Voltaires’ knife hovering over him.


    “Sabir Quinn,” Vincent thought, staring at the neon-lit reflections on the bar. “He’ll end up just like her. Just like everyone else who’s tangled with our damn family.”


    Those golden eyes haunted him. He saw them in his dreams, in his nightmares. Even his own child had those cursed eyes, passed down through Cynthia like a twisted legacy.


    The door creaked open, and Vincent tensed, narrowing his eyes. “Damn it, we’re closed. It’s 4 AM,” he grumbled, not bothering to turn around. He heard the hinges squeak unnaturally, the broken door shifting in its frame. His heart skipped a beat.


    “Why is the door broken?” A familiar voice echoed through the empty club. Vincent stiffened, momentarily panicked, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. He couldn’t let his guard down, not now.


    Slowly, Vincent turned around, his gaze falling on a short young man standing in the doorway. His straight black hair hung just above his eyes, sharp with rage. The man had pulled his hoodie up, obscuring his face, but Vincent didn’t need to see more to know who it was. The expensive sneakers, the sharp, predatory look—it could only be one person.


    “So… you’ve come.” Vincent’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Yuen.”


    Yuen stepped forward, his movements deliberate, calculating. He edged closer to Vincent, never breaking eye contact, and slid onto the purple bench beside the bar. His hands rested on the bar counter as if to keep himself grounded, but his eyes were blazing with unspoken fury.


    “How have you been, Vincent?” Yuen’s voice was casual, almost mocking. “It’s been a long time, huh?”


    Vincent slowly got up from his seat, walking to the other side of the bar, realising what was about to happen. He glanced at the rows of bottles behind him, the vast array of spirits lined up like soldiers. “Want a drink?” he asked, not even looking at Yuen.


    Yuen chuckled softly. “Yeah, sure. I could use one.”


    “What’ll it be?” Vincent asked, trying to keep his voice steady.


    “What have you got?” Yuen replied, resting his chin on his hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world.


    “Vodka, rum, whiskey, gin, beer, wine… We got it all,” Vincent muttered, waving his hand toward the shelves.


    “I’ll take some of that vodka,” Yuen said without hesitation.


    Vincent grabbed a bottle, pouring a shot for Yuen. The vodka splashed into the glass, and Vincent watched as Yuen grabbed it and downed the shot without flinching. His eyes looked towards Yuen’s belt. It was empty.


    “I noticed all the vodka bottles,” Yuen remarked, his eyes gleaming. “I thought you had a more refined taste. Didn’t you only drink wine?”


    Vincent allowed himself a small, bitter smile, ignoring that Yuen had none of his knives. “Yeah, I remember trying to convince Miguel to improve his palette.” He paused, nostalgia creeping into his voice for a fleeting second before it vanished, replaced by weariness. “Well, sometimes you want to forget the world’s weight for a while… and vodka’s the only thing strong enough to lift it.” He tipped the bottle to his lips, not bothering with a glass this time, and took a long drink.


    “So… how’s everyone?” Vincent asked, his voice suddenly hollow. “I saw what you guys did at The Threshold.”


    Yuen’s face twitched slightly. “Hm, everyone’s doing fine. I guess.” He shrugged. “Could be better. We’re setting ourselves up in Sector 0.”


    “Sector 0, huh?” Vincent echoed, raising an eyebrow as he stared at the empty bottle in his hand.


    “Yeah. Sector 0.” Yuen’s voice was flat, but Vincent could hear the underlying tension.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Vincent didn’t respond. He took another swig from the vodka bottle before smashing it on the ground. Glass shattered, the sound echoing in the empty club like a gunshot.


    Yuen blinked, watching the shards scatter across the floor. “You just wasted some good alcohol,” he remarked dryly. “I could’ve used another shot.”


    Vincent leaned against the bar, staring at the mess on the floor. “C’mon, I think we’ve both drunk enough. It’s time you get it over with.”


    Yuen looked at him, feigning innocence. “Get what over with?”


    Vincent sighed, rubbing his temples. “We both know why you’re here.”


    Yuen’s sharp eyes narrowed, his fists clenched tightly under the table. He chuckled, low and menacing. “A triple agent, huh? I would’ve never guessed.”


    Vincent turned away, clenching his fists. “I didn’t want to betray you,” he muttered, his voice strained. “But I thought it would save my family.”


    Yuen’s lips curled into a smirk. “Seems like every Voltaire’s a backstabber. Your family still died, Vincent. You ended up with nothing.”


    “At least none of you died,” Vincent shot back, his voice suddenly rising.


    Yuen’s expression hardened. “Yeah, but at the price of us fleeing to the middle of nowhere. We had to live out in the wasteland, y’know, living on nothing but nutripulp. Jai and Amaya are just kids. If they died, it would’ve been all your fault.” Yuen sighed, twirling the shot glass with his fingertips. “The Boreas family gave up on the chase, but The Hound, he kept searching. All because of you.”


    Vincent stood there, silent for a moment, his chest tight. He could feel the distance between them—physically, emotionally, it was a chasm neither could cross. He stepped closer to Yuen, the counter still separating them. “Just do it.”


    Yuen’s stony gaze softened, just slightly. “I haven’t been sent to kill you,” he said, almost nonchalantly. “No, I came at the request of someone else.”


    Vincent frowned. “Then what do you want?”


    Yuen’s tone darkened. “You don’t happen to know if a kid named Sabir Quinn is still alive, do you?”


    Vincent hesitated for a second before responding, his voice grim. “You’re too late. He’s dead.”


    Yuen didn’t react immediately. He stood up from his seat, moving toward the exit. He glanced at the broken door. “You should really fix this door.”


    As he reached the doorframe, Vincent’s voice rang out in frustration. “Is that it? You will not kill me? I betrayed you! I betrayed all of you!”


    Yuen stopped, turning his head slightly. His voice was cold, indifferent. “Oh, Vincent. Just drown yourself in alcohol. If I were you, I’d have already tied a noose.”


    Vincent’s eyes burned, his vision blurring with unshed tears as he watched Yuen leave. His whole body trembled as Yuen’s final words lingered in the air.


    “The boss didn’t appreciate finding out, the Voltaire’s were trying to frame us for a murder we didn’t commit. She’s coming for you,” Yuen said, his voice echoing in the quiet. “And if you’re still breathing when she arrives… well, you’ll die the most painful death imaginable. Burnt to a crisp.” Yuen waved his hand with his back turned. “Consider this a last act of kindness from a friend.”


    Yuen walked out, leaving Vincent alone with the shattered glass, the broken door, and his looming death.


    Vincent stood frozen in the silence that followed Yuen’s exit. The sound of the broken door creaking slowly shut felt like the final nail in his coffin. He slumped against the bar, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Yuen’s words echoed in his mind, the most painful death imaginable. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out, but they wouldn’t stop repeating, wouldn’t let him breathe.


    Staggering forward, Vincent grabbed the edge of the bar for balance. His hand trembled as he reached for the nearest bottle. The amber liquid sloshed inside, but it didn’t hold any promise of relief. Not anymore. He couldn’t drink his way out of this.


    With sudden anger, he hurled the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall, the shattering glass mirroring the broken fragments of his life. He looked down at the rack of alcohol, his eyes scanning the bottles stacked neatly, one after another, their polished surfaces reflecting the flickering neon light. For years, they had been his escape, but tonight… tonight, they were just in the way.


    His hands shook as he began pulling them off the shelf, bottle after bottle. Vodka, whiskey, gin—they all hit the ground, shattering on impact. The rich smell of alcohol filled the room, sharp and overwhelming. He didn’t care. His mind was on something else, something hidden behind the wall of liquor. He knew it was here, buried beneath the bottles he had once clung to for comfort.


    His fingers finally brushed against cold metal.


    A knife.


    The hilt was smooth and familiar as he gripped it tight, pulling it out from the mess of broken glass and spilled booze. The blade gleamed faintly in the neon light, sharp and ready, just like it had been when he’d hidden it there so many nights ago—before everything had fallen apart.


    Vincent stared at the knife in his hand, his breath catching in his throat. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface of the blade, distorted and ghostly. The weight of it felt strange, heavy, but right. He hadn’t been able to protect his family, hadn’t been able to stop the Voltaires from sinking their claws into his life. But maybe, just maybe, he could end it before they tore him apart piece by piece.


    He lifted the knife slowly, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind was blank, as if every thought had finally drained away, leaving him in this singular moment, alone with his decision.


    The tip of the blade hovered just over his chest, trembling in his grasp.


    “Do it,” the knife whispered to him.


    His hand shook harder as the blade inched closer, the cold steel now pressing against his skin. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his body tense, poised on the brink.


    Vincent’s eyes squeezed shut as his grip tightened on the hilt. His heart raced wildly, each beat hammering in his ears as his mind fought against itself. He raised the knife higher, preparing to plunge it deep.


    The sound of a knife dropping to the floor was drowned out by the tears of a broken man.