Renzo steps into the rain lit night, hair dripping, secrets heavier than the storm.
The rain never really stopped—it just softened, like a heartbeat trying to calm itself down. Renzo stepped out onto the hotel’s narrow balcony, the wet stone slick beneath his boots. The city below hummed, neon lights bleeding into puddles that looked like melted glass.
Behind him, the door slid open. The man followed, the one in the charcoal suit. He moved with the kind of stillness that meant control. A silver lighter flicked, a match hissed. The flame briefly framed his face—sharp, almost too polished to belong to someone real.
“Smoke?” the stranger asked, offering the pack like it was a test.
Renzo shook his head. “Not tonight.”
The man smiled faintly, a smile that didn’t belong to kindness. “Call me Marcel,” he said, exhaling smoke into the rain. “Jules and I share a few… interests. But I’m afraid your name’s in my ledger now too.”
Renzo’s throat tightened. “Ledger?”
Marcel didn’t answer—he just reached into his pocket and pressed something cold into Renzo’s palm. A Polaroid.
It wasn’t blank.
The photo showed Renzo asleep, the sheets tangled around him, a shadowed figure at the edge of the frame. He didn’t remember anyone taking it.
His pulse quickened. “Where did you get this?”
Marcel leaned in close enough for the smoke to brush Renzo’s cheek. “You look better in motion than still,” he whispered. “But that’s not really your choice, is it?”
The words hit like a hand around his throat—too close, too knowing.
Renzo should have pulled away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still. The air between them pulsed with something sharp, something that wasn’t just threat—it was recognition.
“Jules owes me more than money,” Marcel murmured, adjusting the collar of Renzo’s jacket like a lover would. “He trades in loyalty. And you, Renzo Vale, are very loyal.”
Marcel’s fingers brushed the Polaroid strap still looped around Renzo’s wrist. “Tomorrow night,” he said, sliding the balcony door open. “Different hotel. Different room. Come alone. Or someone else pays.”
Renzo’s voice caught somewhere between defiance and fear. “Who?”
But Marcel was already gone, a ghost swallowed by the hum of the rain and the city’s flickering glow.
Renzo looked down at the photo one more time, the image already fading like breath on glass.
He didn’t know if he was walking back inside—or deeper into someone else’s game.
Next On: Episode 04 — The Return of the Patron
Renzo finds himself backstage in his own life—half dressed, half awake, caught between reflection and performance.
Add comment
Comments