Chapter 2: Twist of the Tuck.

Vincent Virenson.

The night air was cool and smelled faintly of burnt rubber — probably from Marco’s idea of “warming up” his motorcycle tires earlier. We were standing near the alley by Carmello’s Garage, talking about tomorrow’s race like it was going to be the event of the year.

“Bro, I’m telling you,” Marco said, eyes glittering under the dim streetlight, “I’ve tuned my bike to perfection. You’ll eat my dust.”

I smirked. “Marco, your bike wheezes like an asthmatic grandma going uphill. The only dust I’ll be eating is the one you cough up.”

He punched my shoulder lightly. “Keep talking. Tomorrow, you’re—”

“Vincent.”

The sound of my name sliced through our banter like a whip. I turned instinctively—

—and felt a white-hot sting rip into my side.

For a moment, I didn’t even process it. My brain was too busy screaming, What the hell? Did someone just hug me with a knife?!

The man in front of me wasn’t a stranger. Oh no. It was him—Tattoo Neck. The very same guy I’d fought yesterday for messing with Violet. The swirling ink that wrapped around his neck seemed to slither under the flickering streetlight, like the snake it was.

“You—” I started, but my voice cracked with pain.

He twisted the blade just enough to make my teeth clench. My vision pulsed red.

“Tell your little princess,” he hissed, “this is just the beginning.”

Before I could lunge, he yanked the knife free and shoved me. My knees buckled. The world tilted.

“Marco—” I gasped, reaching out—

But my so-called friend? He took one look, eyes wide, and bolted. Gone. Just… gone.

Traitor, I screamed in my head. Unbelievable. My ride-or-die just chose ride.

My knees hit the pavement hard, and the cold seeped into my bones. I could taste iron in my mouth.

“Oh no… am I about to die?” The thought crept in, absurdly calm, like it had been waiting for its cue. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t even get to finish my pizza.”

My breath came in short, ragged bursts. Streetlights blurred. The sound of Tattoo Neck’s footsteps faded into the night. I was alone.

---

Violet Virgilson.

Something was off.

I’d been pacing my room for twenty minutes, chewing on my bottom lip. Vincent wasn’t back yet. For him, being late was normal. But this? This felt different. My stomach twisted.

“What is going on?” I muttered to myself.

The clock ticked louder than usual. The wind outside howled like it was warning me.

Enough. I grabbed my phone—no answer. Called again—nothing.

That was it. I yanked open his closet (yes, I have access—don’t ask why), grabbed his black leather jacket, and slipped it over my shoulders. It smelled like him—motor oil, mint gum, and just a hint of trouble.

The streets were quiet, except for the occasional car rumbling past. My boots clicked against the pavement, each step heavier than the last.

And then… I saw him.

Lying on the ground.

Bleeding.

My heart stopped. “Vincent!”

I was kneeling beside him before my brain caught up. Blood seeped through his shirt, warm and terrifying against my hands. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow.

“Stay with me! Don’t you dare close your eyes!” I barked, panic making my voice sharp.

He groaned.

“Vincent, I swear if you die on me, I will drag you back just to kill you myself.”

His eyes fluttered open—barely—and then he smiled. Smiled.

“For you,” he whispered, voice weak but steady, “I would die with a smile… even if the world was ending.”

I froze. My heart skipped. Then I smacked his shoulder. “Don’t say that! You can't be romantic now, bad timing, idiot!

He winced but chuckled faintly—before his eyes closed again.

“Vincent!”

I somehow got him on his feet—half-carrying, half-dragging him—back home .

Or can I call it that?

He was heavier than he looked, and I swore under my breath the whole way.

By the time we stumbled into my kitchen, I was sweating like I’d run a marathon. I dumped him onto the couch and grabbed the first-aid kit.

“Take your shirt off,” I ordered.

He cracked one eye open, grinning faintly. “Normally, I’d make a suggestive comment, but I think I’m bleeding out, so… later.”

I rolled my eyes but bit back a smile. “Shut up.”

I cleaned the wound—he hissed like a cat.

“Oh, stop being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? You try getting stabbed, and then you will know how it feels.

That made me pause. “What happened?”

His gaze softened. “The tattoo neck guy I fought yesterday… because of you. He stabbed me.” He tried to smile, but it came out lopsided.

“What?!” My voice shot up an octave.

“Yeah. He said it was just the beginning. Guess I made a good first impression.”

I swallowed hard, my hands trembling as I bandaged him. “Vincent…”

“I’ll die for you, V,” he said simply, closing his eyes again.

I froze, my breath hitching. “…Don’t you dare. You’re not allowed to.”

“Too late. Already decided,” he mumbled, drifting off.

I sighed, brushing hair from his forehead. “Idiot. Go to bed.”

“Only if you promise not to leave,” he murmured, half-asleep.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

I will leave only when I know you are safe, maybe not just now.

---

Vincent Virenson.

I woke up hours later with the faint smell of coffee and the sound of Violet humming in the kitchen. My side still throbbed, but the blanket over me was warm.

I could hear her muttering. “Stupid tattoo guy… stupid Vincent… making me worry like this…”

A smile tugged at my lips. For a moment, the pain didn’t matter.

I closed my eyes again, pretending to be asleep.

Because right then, lying there, I realized… maybe being stabbed wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to me.