One More Round

William tries the second entrance now. 

Walking confidently—just like he used to—he stepped inside. 

Step. 

Step. 

Step. 

But this time, no one stopped him. 

Was it really the attire? William felt the difference of class. A confident aura, and you could enter anywhere. Privilege. Something he had lost. 

The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne clung to the air as William stepped into the grand lobby of Hotel Belmond Splendido. The chandelier overhead cast a warm glow on the marble floors, reflecting off the gilded edges of towering archways. It was opulence at its finest—an Eden for the elite. 

But William wasn't here to admire the decor. 

His eyes swept over the sea of well-dressed guests, scanning for a man in a merlot suit. He checked near the concierge first, where a cluster of businessmen engaged in quiet conversation, their suits varying in shades of charcoal and navy—none merlot. He moved past the grand piano, where a woman in an emerald gown leaned against the glossy black surface, laughing at something her companion said. No merlot suit there either. 

William's jaw tensed. 

He wove through the lounge, past clusters of guests sipping cocktails, past waiters in crisp uniforms balancing trays of crystal glasses. He checked the entrance, the hallway leading to the private suites, even the bar, where a couple of men wore deep reds—but not the right shade, not the right cut. 

Minutes stretched into an hour. He stopped near a velvet-cushioned chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Had he missed him? Had the man already left? 

A flicker of doubt crept in. The message had been precise. And yet, the only thing William had gained in the last sixty minutes was a newfound appreciation for how ridiculously long it took the rich to finish a single drink. Just like it used to for him. 

Still, he couldn't leave. Not yet. 

With a frustrated sigh, William straightened his jacket and turned toward the far end of the lobby. One more round. He wasn't leaving without answers. 

By the time he had made three rounds around the property and had two unexpected run-ins with hotel staff, exhaustion settled deep into his bones. A whole afternoon wasted chasing shadows. 

William heard a commotion at the first entrance—the very one he had caused a scene at a few days prior. Curiosity piqued, he turned to see a furious man arguing with the guard, waving his hands in frustration. 

That man. 

What was his name again? 

Something with… Lorango? 

One glance at Enzo, and William took a step back. Shit. 

Well, it wouldn't be a great impression if he had to explain to the guy he had stolen from. Necessary? Yes. Awkward? Also yes. 

William started toward the elevator, pressing the button far too many times as if he could will it to arrive faster. His fingers twitched to press it again just as the doors slid open. 

A man stepped out. 

Dressed in an all-black, tailored three-piece suit, he carried himself with an air of quiet confidence. The outfit was simple, but the kind that whispered wealth instead of screaming it. 

William quickly lowered his gaze and stepped inside, hoping to go unnoticed. 

Unfortunately, he wasn't that lucky. 

"Oh, aren't you that guy from the plane? The one who screamed ?" the man said casually. 

"No, you've got the wrong guy. Now let me pass, I have important matters to attend to," William snapped. 

"Spoken exactly like 'that guy.'" 

William's patience had already been worn thin, and this stranger wasn't helping. His gaze flickered up, expression cold. 

"Yes. I am. Do you have some business with me, or can I not mind my own for once?" 

The man looked a little startled at the outburst. "Uh, no, sir. I just—by the way, I apologize if I caused any discomfort." 

"Thank you bastard. Now let me go." 

"Uh… yes. Sure." 

William ignored him, stepping into the elevator, rubbing a hand over his face as the doors closed. 

He exhaled sharply. 

A glance back at the entrance showed that the manager had arrived to settle the issue. Good. 

He pressed the ground floor button. 

The dimly lit parking lot was quiet, aside from the occasional hum of an engine. 

William loitered for a while, watching the cars come and go. His shoulders ached from the long day, and his head buzzed with exhaustion. 

"Tomorrow it is," he muttered, shoulders slumping. 

Finding a space between two parked cars—a hidden blind spot—he slipped inside. It would do. 

Unbuttoning his blazer, he folded it inside out, making a makeshift pillow. Lying down on the cold concrete, he stared at the ceiling until exhaustion dragged him into sleep. 

"You love me, right?" 

"More than anyone could." 

"Why would I want someone else's love when I have you?" 

"I might not be here forever." 

"You're here now. That's what matters." 

"Does it?" 

"Yes." 

. 

"What's your name?" 

"Vivienne." 

"William." 

. 

A gunshot. 

A scream. 

A struggle. 

William's breath hitched. His hands trembled as he crouched over Vivienne, blood seeping through her chest. She struggled to breathe, crimson staining her dress. 

"No, Vivi, no. You—you can't—" 

Her lips quivered. "I love—" 

The words never came. 

Her eyes fluttered shut. 

William's heart pounded in his ears, hands shaking as he tried—desperately—to wake her. His breaths came fast, ragged, disbelieving. 

Silence. 

Cold. Deafening. 

"I did you a favor, my boy," a voice broke the quiet. "Now drop the act. Clean this mess up and dispose of her." 

The butler took a step forward, but William tightened his grip around Vivienne, pressing his forehead against her cooling skin. 

A flicker of something dark took root inside him. 

His fingers brushed against the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. 

He raised it. 

The butler stilled. 

William shifted his aim. 

Pointed it at the man who had started all of this. 

His father. 

"Take another fucking step," William rasped, voice shaking, "and it's over for you." 

His hands wavered. The butler lunged. 

Bang. 

A shot rang through the air. Then another. And another. 

One to his father's right leg. One to his left. One to the butler. 

The room reeked of gunpowder and blood. 

William stumbled forward, his white shirt stained crimson. 

He knelt beside Vivienne, cradling her body, whispering her name like a breathless mantra. 

"Vivienne. Vivienne." 

His voice cracked. 

The night carried on, but for William, the world had already ended. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________A firm nudge against his arm. 

It barely registers at first. 

"Woah, man. You alright?" 

The voice feels distant, like an echo trying to reach him through thick fog. William is trapped in the lingering haze of his nightmare, his body tense, his breath uneven. His shirt clings to his back, damp with cold sweat. His head shakes—at first slowly, then violently, as if trying to rid himself of something unseen. 

The man beside him shifts, momentarily uncertain. He watches, brows furrowing, then quietly lowers himself to a crouch. This time, he nudges William's foot instead of his arm. 

"Sir?" His voice is softer now, cautious. 

No response. 

But then— 

"VIVIENNE!" 

William lurches upright with a gasp, eyes wild, chest heaving. He looks around frantically, searching for something—someone. His fingers rake through his damp hair, pushing it back as he fights to catch his breath. 

The nightmare still clings to him, the edges of it blurring into reality. His heartbeat thunders in his ears. Slowly, he blinks, forcing himself to focus. That's when he sees the man crouched nearby, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and mild concern. 

William stiffens. 

"Who—?" His voice is hoarse, unsteady. He swallows hard, trying again. "Who the hell are you?" 

The man exhales, leaning back on his heels. He gestures at William's disheveled state. "You were shaking pretty bad, man." 

William barely hears him. His mind is still scrambling to separate dream from reality, but paranoia starts to creep in. His eyes narrow. 

"Why were you watching me?" His voice is sharper now. "Are you following me? What the hell do you want?" 

The man's brows shoot up. A flicker of irritation crosses his face. "Oh, come on. I came to get my car, which—" he gestures to the side—"is literally parked next to you. Then I see some guy lying on the ground, sweating bullets and mumbling in his sleep. What was I supposed to do? Step over you and move on?" 

William clenches his jaw, his breathing still uneven. His fingers curl into his blazer, which he'd carelessly tossed aside earlier. 

"Right," he mutters, rubbing his temple. His headache hasn't faded. "Just… bad timing, I guess." 

The man scoffs, standing up and dusting off his jeans. "Yeah, no kidding." He watches as William straightens his shirt, gathers himself, and—almost reluctantly—mumbles, 

"Sorry for the misunderstanding." 

The stranger lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. "You're welcome for waking you up, by the way." He shakes his head before turning away, heading toward his car. The engine hums to life, headlights cutting through the dim parking lot before he pulls out and drives off. 

William exhales slowly, rubbing his face one last time. The nightmare still lingers in the corners of his mind, but the fresh air helps. 

At least, until he turns toward the entrance. 

A shadow stands in his way. 

A silhouette. 

Tall. Unmoving. 

William blinks, his vision adjusting to the darkness. The streetlight behind the figure makes it hard to make out any features, but something about it sends a sharp warning through his gut. 

Then—pain. 

A sharp sting in his thigh. 

His breath stutters. His knees nearly give out. His fingers fumble downward, grasping at something—a dart. 

His head snaps up, but the figure is already turning away. 

William tries to move, but his limbs feel slow. His heartbeat pounds sluggishly, the world tilting around him. 

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. 

Then—hands. 

Two sets of them, seizing his arms. 

His mouth opens to protest, to fight—but it's too late. 

Darkness swallows him whole.