“Vince?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to make her uneasy.

Then his voice came through—rough, uneven. Too slow.

“Vivian.”

Her stomach tightened. “What’s wrong?”

A shaky inhale. The sound of a bottle clinking against something hard. Then—

“Serena’s gone.”

Vivian stopped walking. “What?”

“She—” He let out a low breath, his words slurring at the edges. “She went out Saturday morning. Just to grab groceries. She never came home.”

Vivian’s grip on the phone tightened. “That was two days ago.”

“I know,” Vince muttered. A dull thud sounded through the receiver, like something heavy hitting a table. “I know.”

“Maybe she just—”

“No.” His voice sharpened, but it was unsteady, wobbling between anger and something dangerously close to despair. “She wouldn’t be gone this long. Not without saying something. Not without—” He exhaled sharply. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve—should’ve never let her go alone.”

Vivian pushed out of her chair, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she made her way out of the lecture hall. “Did you call the police?”

A bitter, humorless chuckle. “And tell ’em what? That my fiancée, the one they’ve had in their system since she was sixteen, is missing? That I got no clue where she went, but probably someone took her?” His breathing was heavier now, almost panting. “They won’t give a fuck, Viv.”

She shut her eyes. He was right.

“Where are you?” she asked.

A long silence.

Then—

“Silver Key.” His voice was quieter now, slower.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming.”

The Silver Key was closed when Vivian arrived.

The neon sign above the entrance was dark, the metal shutters rolled down over the front. It looked abandoned in the afternoon light, the way all nighttime establishments did when stripped of their illusions—no flashing strobes, no music thrumming through the walls, no bodies pressed close in dimly lit rooms.

But the side door, the one staff used, was unlocked.

She pushed it open, stepping into a narrow hallway. The air inside was stale, heavy with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol. The karaoke bar was quiet, empty of staff, but even in the silence, it carried an echo of past nights—low voices murmuring in the dark, laughter cut off by slammed doors, the distant thud of bass that no longer played.

She pulled out her phone and called Vince.

He picked up on the second ring. His voice was slow, thick.

“Yeah?”

“I’m here,” she said. “Where are you?”

A pause. Then—

“Room twenty-three.”

She moved quickly, stepping past the empty private rooms, the numbered doors blurring together. Some were cracked open just enough to reveal their usual aftermath—bottles abandoned on tables, microphones tangled in their cords, ashtrays filled with lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

At Room 23, she didn’t knock.

She pushed the door open.

And stopped.

Vince was slouched at the table, surrounded by a mess of empty bottles. Whiskey. Soju. Something stronger. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt half unbuttoned.

Vivian had never seen him like this.

Vince didn’t get drunk.

Not like this.

She shut the door behind her and stepped forward. “What the hell happened?”

Vince barely moved, just lifted his head slightly. His eyes, usually so sharp, were bloodshot, unfocused. It took him a second too long to recognize her.

“I told you,” he muttered. “She’s gone.”

Vivian moved to his side, crouching slightly as he swayed. Up close, the alcohol on his breath was overpowering.

“You need water,” she said.

“I need—” Vince exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I need to find her.”

“Vince, you’re—”

“You don’t get it.” His voice was hoarse, like he had been talking—yelling?—long before she arrived. “This isn’t just her going off somewhere. This isn’t—” He let out a rough breath, gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. “I should’ve been with her. Should’ve never let her go alone.”

Vivian swallowed hard. “What are you talking about?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Vince’s jaw clenched. For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then—

“We were just kids,” he murmured. His voice had dropped, slurring at the edges, but there was something else there now. Something raw. “We didn’t have a choice.”

A chill spread through her limbs.

Vince lifted his head slightly, blinking blearily at the ceiling. “Marcus and Ray,” he muttered. “They were first. Now it’s Serena. So it ain’t a fucking coincidence.”

Vivian’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Before she could respond—

The door creaked open.

Vivian turned just in time to see a man step inside.

Tall. Broad.

His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

Not drunk.

High.

The kind of high that hollowed people out, left them teetering on the edge of something violent.

Vivian barely had time to react before Vince pulled himself up, stepping in front of her.

“Who the fuck are you?” Vince demanded.

The man didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even hesitate.

His hand slid into his jacket.

Vince tensed.

Vivian saw the flash of metal as the hammer came free.

And then the man lunged.

The hammer swung fast.

Vince barely had time to react, shifting his weight just enough to dodge the first strike. The heavy metal head smashed into the edge of the table instead, knocking over bottles, sending shards of glass skittering across the floor.

Vivian stumbled back, pressing herself against the wall.

The man—the attacker—jerked his head toward Vince, eyes blown wide, wild. His breath came fast and shallow, nostrils flaring. His movements were erratic, twitching with barely contained energy, the kind of reckless, drug-fueled aggression that turned men into monsters.

Vince moved.

He caught the attacker’s wrist, gripping it tight, twisting it back just enough to throw him off balance. The hammer wobbled in his grip but didn’t fall.

“Vivian,” Vince snapped, voice sharp. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Her body didn’t move.

The attacker growled something incoherent, something ugly, and drove his knee up into Vince’s ribs. Vince grunted, but he didn’t let go, dragging the man forward instead, using his own momentum against him. They crashed into the table, knocking over more bottles, the sharp scent of whiskey spilling into the air.

It looked like Vince had the upper hand—until he didn’t.

It happened too fast.

A shift in weight, a misstep, something—Vivian wasn’t sure. But suddenly, Vince was the one falling backward, his grip slipping, and the attacker wrenched his arm free.

The hammer came down.

The first hit landed against Vince’s shoulder, sending him reeling back.

The second—

Vivian screamed.

The hammer struck his head with a sickening crack.

Vince staggered, his knees buckling.

The third strike sent him to the floor.

Blood splattered against the table, the floor, pooling beneath him faster than her mind could process.

Vivian’s breath came in short, panicked bursts.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t move.

Vince.

Vince was—

Something in her mind cracked open, memories bleeding into reality.

A gun.

Her mother’s arms tightening around her.

Her father’s voice, desperate, pleading—words she couldn’t make out.

The room blurred.

Somewhere in the haze, the attacker turned toward her.

Vivian saw it happen but couldn’t react.

She was frozen, her body refusing to obey.

The man started toward her, his grip tightening around the hammer, blood dripping from its head.

And then—

A blur of movement.

Someone slammed into the attacker, knocking him off balance.

They crashed against the lounge chair, the hammer tumbling from his grasp.

Vivian blinked.

The attacker let out a furious snarl, grappling with the man who had intervened. A fist landed against his jaw. Another to his ribs. But he wasn’t going down.

He should have gone down.

But the drugs kept him standing.

He caught the other man by the throat and threw him back against the chair.

Vivian’s vision sharpened.

The attacker straddled the man’s waist, pinning him down. His fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing.

The man beneath him struggled, his body jerking, muscles straining.

His head turned slightly—just enough for her to see.

Noah.

Something clicked into place.

His eyes—sharp, panicked, desperate for air. His hands clawed at the attacker’s arms, his chest heaving, his legs kicking wildly beneath him.

He was going to lose.

He was going to—

Vivian’s gaze dropped.

The hammer was within reach.

She moved before she could think.

Her fingers curled around the handle.

She stood.

Stepped forward.

Raised it high above her head.

And swung.

* * * * * * * * * *

Vivian drifted in darkness.

There was no sound, no thought, no sensation. Just weightlessness, like she was floating in a space with no walls, no floor, nothing to hold on to. A moment suspended in time.

And then—

She blinked.

The world came back in fragments.

The cold press of the floor beneath her. The distant scent of metal, sharp and cloying. Her fingers twitching against something wet.

She blinked again.

She was sitting on the ground. Legs folded beneath her, palms resting limply at her sides, fingers slick with something thick, something warm. A hammer lay discarded near her knee.

She exhaled shakily.

Everything was silent.

For a second, a fragile, fleeting second, she thought—maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it had all been a nightmare, a terrible, impossible dream, something she would wake up from if she just closed her eyes long enough.

Then she looked up.

And reality came crashing down.

Vince’s body lay just a few feet away.

He was slumped against the floor, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle, his legs bent awkwardly beneath him. His face—oh God. His face was barely visible beneath the blood, a deep, gaping wound splitting his skull. Dark red had pooled around his head, soaking into the cheap carpet, thick and glistening under the dim room lights.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She turned—

And saw him.

The man. The attacker.

His body was sprawled near the lounge chair, his head—his head wasn’t right.

Vivian’s breath caught in her throat.

The skull was caved in, the flesh torn open, a mess of splintered bone and dark, pulped matter. His features were unrecognizable, crushed beyond anything human. The blood—his blood—was smeared across the floor in uneven streaks, thick droplets still clinging to the walls.

Something in her mind recoiled, tried to push it away, to reject the sight before her.

But it was real.

All of it.

And the blood—the blood that covered her hands, her clothes, splattered across her skin—

Some of it was Vince’s.

Some of it was his.

The realization hit her like a physical force. Her body lurched forward before she could stop it, her stomach seizing, heaving violently.

She barely managed to turn away before she threw up.

The acid burned its way up her throat, her whole body convulsing as she choked on gasping breaths.

She pressed her palm to the ground, steadying herself, fingers slipping against something slick.

The nausea clawed at her, but there was nothing left to bring up.

Her body trembled.

Then—

A napkin appeared in front of her.

White. Crisp. Stark against the carnage around them.

She blinked, dazed, barely processing it.

Then her gaze lifted.

Noah crouched beside her.

His face was bruised, swelling already blooming along his cheekbone, his lower lip split. Blood streaked his temple, some of it his, some of it not.

But his eyes—

His eyes gleamed, dark and bright all at once.

And he was smiling.

Not the friendly, easy grin she had seen a hundred times before.

This was something else.

Something slower.

Something delighted.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice low, almost thoughtful.

His fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to touch her.

His smile widened, curling at the edges like he was amused.

“That was unexpected.”