Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I should have never come back. But here I am, standing in front of this shabby building in London, staring up at the faded letters that once meant power—now just a reminder of what I've become.
The streets are quieter than I remembered, even with the distant hum of the city. The rain fell in a fine mist, and I let it hit my face, trying to ignore the knot of dread twisting in my stomach. I shouldn't be here. I know it.
But the letter, the threats... They didn't leave me with much choice. I couldn't risk this man exposing me. Exposing the parts of me I've buried so deep, I don't even think about them anymore. But now I'm facing it. All of it. All because of one goddamn mistake.
I reach for the door, my fingers brushing the rusted handle. It feels heavier than it should. The air inside smells of stale smoke and alcohol—familiar, in a way that twists my gut with something close to regret. I haven't been back here in years. Don't think I ever planned on it.
The door opens with a low groan, and I step inside. It's dim, the lights flickering as I move through the narrow corridor. I don't need to be told where to go. I know exactly where he'll be. In the back room. It's always the back room.
The man stands at the far end of the room, his broad silhouette framed by the weak glow of the overhead light. I can't see his face yet, but I know it's him. The way the air seems to shift when he's around. I don't even need to hear his voice to know that everything I've built could be taken from me in a single breath.
I stop a few paces away, watching him as he turns to face me. The faint grin that curls on his lips is unsettling, but it's nothing compared to the fury I've seen in him before. It's something else. Something colder.
He got buffer, he got old... His hair slicked back, a gray streak ran across. His eyes were baggy, his eyes were low, deadly. He had the same scar that went to his neck running up to his eyebrow, He wore a black unbuttoned shirt. Chest hair sticking out and as usual. Smoking a cigar.
Men were surrounding him, some looked familiar, deadly familiar. I couldn't put my tongue to It, others I had no idea who they were.
He looked at me, with a small smile. "Hello Callum," he says, his voice low, rough, like gravel being scraped over stone.
He was standing in front of his desk, maybe this made me soft. Being away so long, the way at least five men on each side of him threatened me.
"You certainly gave everyone a scare," He said with a pause, "Now we're thrilled to see you safe and sound." It was sarcastic, but It was so much deeper than that. His words were referring to when I left.
"Look Vin—" I was cut off.
"As for this little game of yours, thank the heavens It's over." He paused. I wanted to say something. I felt eaten, everything I tried to get out, he chewed up as If It didn't matter.
