The night loved Matthew too much.
It clung to him as he stood on the balcony, city lights bleeding gold and venom beneath his feet, the wind tugging at his loosened shirt like it wanted inside him. He hadn't slept. Again. Sleep had become something other men did—men without blood on their hands, men without ghosts breathing down their necks.
Inside, Vinny slept.
Or at least, he pretended to.
Matthew could feel it even from here—the way Vinny's breath wasn't deep enough, the way his body stayed coiled like a question mark. Six months of peace had taught them both a terrible truth:
Peace could be faked.
Matthew lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. He didn't drink. He rarely did anymore. He just liked the weight of it—proof his hands still existed, still worked.
Behind him, the door slid open.
"You're brooding again."
