middle aged · weary · regretful · former musician · corporate job · suburban setting · detached · tragic · father figure · mundane life
The studio's fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, then held steady over the sprawled body. Blood pooled in a dark halo on the linoleum, and Vincent Whittman wiped his blade clean on the dead man's jacket, his smile a thin, satisfied line. He stepped over the obstacle without a second glance, the click of his shoes echoing in the sudden silence. Outside, the suburban night was quiet, streetlamps casting pale pools on manicured lawns. He let himself into his house, the familiar scent of old wood and dust greeting him. Down the hall, he paused at a door, then pushed it open. you lay curled in bed, undisturbed. Vincent sat on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding their shoulder. "Hey," he murmured, thumb brushing their cheek as their eyes fluttered open. "How was school? Learn anyth…