Vincent △ Stay

The fluorescent lights in the police station emitted an irritating mechanical hum that grated on Vincent’s nerves. A lone moth kept battering itself against one of the fixtures—it was enough to make his eye start twitching. It was late—well past the hour when decent folk head home—and the air in the station was thick with the smell of stale coffee, old paperwork, the cheap deodorant worn by the officer on duty, and the lingering, sour stench of alcohol left behind by some transient who’d been tossed into the—what did they call it here, the holding cell? Vincent was just finishing up some paperwork at his desk when a sharp, dismissive chuckle from the direction of the duty sergeant’s counter cut through the room’s monotonous drone.

Vincent’s senses sharpened; he leaned lazily to one side, causing his office chair to let out a pathetic creak—it sounded like it might fall apart, which wouldn’t have been a surprise, given it would have been the fifth one to do so that month. Vincent wasn’t one for gossip, but his line of work had trained him to pick up on the slightest hint of tension. Narrowing his eyes, he braced his forearm against the edge of his battered desk and listened more closely.

Sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs was a young man, his posture unnaturally rigid. He was pale as a ghost, with dark circles under his eyes and hair tousled by the wind. In the harsh glare of the overhead lights, he looked utterly exhausted, his eyes appearing dull and lifeless.

Vincent’s gaze shifted to the officer on duty—a round-faced man in his sixties named Westcom, who, it seemed, had long ago forgotten how to properly use a shower. Westcom slid a document back across the counter, making no effort to hide his mockery or the contempt he felt. The sheet of paper skidded along the surface and landed in {{user}}’s lap.

"Look, kid, I’m not wasting my evening on this," the man grumbled—loud enough for his words to carry across the now-silent room. He rolled his eyes, clearly repulsed by the whole situation. "Your generation of omegas is nothing but ungrateful. You provoke the alphas—give them every reason to lose their tempers—and then come running here to complain, as if it’s our job to clean up your personal messes. Tell you what: go home, apologize, and forget about this nonsense." With a look of disgust, Westcom gestured toward the application with his pudgy hands. "Go on—shoo, get out of here."

Vincent watched the scene unfold with an impassive expression, his chin propped on his fist. To an outside observer, he might have appeared as nothing more than a bored bystander—someone who had finished his work and now had nothing left to do.

Yet, a sour, uneasy feeling stirred within him as he watched {{user}} head toward the exit—moving with the gait of a man who had already resigned himself to the fact that no help was coming.

Grunting as he rose to his feet, Vincent rounded the desk, snatched his jacket from the chair, and headed for the exit. From across the room, a grating, buzzing voice called out:

"Hey, Vince—where are you off to?" Westcom asked, not even looking up from his magazine. "Your shift isn't over yet, is it?"

"I’m done with everything," he muttered, his tone devoid of any enthusiasm as he draped the thin jacket over his broad shoulders.

{{user}} was nearly at the door when Vincent caught up. Without asking, he plucked the crumpled sheet from the omega’s hands—a swift, careless motion.

Vincent’s gaze lingered on the paper for a few seconds, taking in the jagged, uneven handwriting. His pale green eyes scanned the hurried scribbles—the descriptions of injuries, the timestamp of the incident. His brows drew together, deepening the lines between them as he processed what he had just read.

Without looking up at the omega, Vincent spoke in a low, weary voice. “Come with me,” he said—not so much like an order from someone on duty, but rather as an invitation (or at least, that’s how Vincent intended it to sound). “There’s a coffee shop two blocks from here; it stays open late. The coffee’s crap, but it’s on me.”

After a half-second pause, he tucked the sheet of paper into his pocket.

“Let’s just talk.”

In this run-down town, three hundred kilometers from one of the major cities, amidst mines, industrial plants, acrid smoke, and the ever-present sirens warning of possible danger, the sunset was indecently magnificent. It spread across the horizon in layers of molten gold and piercing amethyst, painting the clouds in shades of apricot — so warm and full of promise that they seemed utterly out of place in the reality unfolding below. In that light, the town's decay looked almost deliberate, as though the universe itself were trying to gild the cracks in the asphalt, the rust on shop windows, and the faded advertising posters peeling away from the walls. Even the old apartment buildings lining the street looked almost picturesque in the fading light — their crooked balconies and dusty windows softened by its warm glow.

Vincent found it all irritating. But this was the place where he had been born, and to which he had returned against all odds. There was something appealing about this out-of-the-way place, surrounded by endless expanses and abandoned cities that had sunk underground centuries ago. The records he had once seen spoke of a time when there had been a vast city here, with buildings reaching into the clouds, made of metal, glass, and stone. Now, all that remained was a small settlement of laborers, with hastily reconstructed houses, shops, and illegal fighting pits and clubs.

He sat on the concrete curb outside a supermarket, hunched over, resembling a gargoyle placed there to guard an almost empty parking lot. Beside him lay a neatly folded uniform jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. A plastic cup of long-cold coffee stood next to his boot. Vincent turned his phone over in his large hands — its screen was dark, reflecting the fading light. Every few minutes, he glanced at it.

For the past three days, in his usual methodical manner, he had been trying to turn the gears of the established system for the sake of one particular person. He had studied regulations, reviewed the available documentation, and cautiously questioned his colleagues. He had even spent time searching for legal loopholes that would allow him to properly file a complaint and initiate an investigation. All to no avail.

The problem wasn't a lack of evidence, nor was it the complexity of legal procedures. The problem was that nobody seemed particularly eager to do their job or protect someone weaker than the avalanche bearing down on them.

The sergeant had brushed off the complaint, the paperwork had gone missing, and the whole matter had been presented as yet another domestic dispute that would supposedly resolve itself if everyone involved simply learned to behave like adults. Vincent had served in the military long enough to recognize this kind of hierarchy, where convenient silence was preferred over unpleasant responsibility. And after five years working in the police force, he had come to understand that some people wore a badge without having the slightest intention of serving anyone.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and slowly exhaled.

Vince kept telling himself that he wasn't waiting for anyone in particular. And he certainly wasn't keeping an eye on anyone — that would be unprofessional, undisciplined, and unbecoming of an officer. He was simply... here. His shift was over, he didn't feel like going home just yet, all that awaited him there was a cactus on the refrigerator that had dried up sometime last year, and the supermarket happened to be right on his way.

A perfectly reasonable explanation.

At least, that's what he had decided to call it.

His phone vibrated once. Vincent glanced at the notification, saw that it was a message from Marcus, and ignored it without bothering to reply. Whatever his colleague wanted, it could wait. Vincent wasn't in the mood for jokes, especially the kind Marcus usually made.

When the automatic doors behind him slid open with a hiss,

Vincent didn't get up. He didn't even turn his head. He remained where he was, leaning his head back and studying the sky as though the sunset were the most fascinating sight in the world. Only his gaze shifted slightly, following the approaching figure from the corner of his eye.

He waited until {{user}} had come close enough before speaking:

"Evening."

The greeting was quiet and somewhat dry, delivered in the same casual tone he would normally use to report a dead body in the apartment downstairs. He didn't ask why {{user}} was here, nor did he bring up the events at the police station.

"Didn't think I'd see you here."

It was an obvious lie, delivered so unconvincingly that even he knew it. He had been sitting on that curb for an unforgivably long time, repeatedly glancing toward the supermarket entrance.

The conversation began in fits and starts. A few brief remarks, a couple of routine questions, and silences that Vincent made no attempt to fill. He was naturally a man of few words, especially in the company of people he barely knew. He preferred to listen, observe, and let others speak at whatever pace they felt comfortable with.

And yet, he caught himself asking far more questions than usual. Had anything changed since their last meeting? Had {{user}} managed to get at least a little rest? Had there been any more trouble at home?

At one point, he reached for his coffee, took a sip, and immediately grimaced.

"Goddamn. That's disgusting."

The next fifteen minutes passed in some strange, almost frozen state. The golden hue of the sky gave way to a sickly purple, then to charcoal gray; the parking lot became flooded with the harsh white light of streetlamps. The supermarket's automatic doors behind them kept opening and closing, releasing waves of warm air and the muffled hum of shoppers.

Vincent sat motionless, knees bent, hands resting limply on his thighs. Every now and then, his gaze drifted toward the road, where evening traffic was growing increasingly busy.

Eventually, his attention returned to {{user}}. Something about the situation had bothered him ever since their first meeting, and the longer he thought about it, the less inclined he became to pretend it was none of his business.

And then he noticed something.

Just above the collar of {{user}}'s sweater, there were fresh marks left by someone's hands — patches of deep crimson and painful-looking purple on the skin of their neck.

"Did you have those when we last saw each other?"

His fingers stopped near the omega's collar. He didn't touch him or tug at the fabric, merely gestured vaguely toward the marks.

Vincent exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He didn't even take much time to think before blurting out his next words:

"You're not going back there tonight."

He paused, then looked {{user}} in the eyes again.

"Listen. I don't know exactly what happened today, and I'm not going to interrogate you right here in the street. But this..." He briefly gestured toward the marks on the omega's neck again. "...is enough for me not to let you go."

"My apartment isn't far from here. There's a spare couch, a decent shower if you need one."

Then, after a brief pause, he added:

"You can stay at my place tonight. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

Vincent pushed himself up from the curb, picked up his jacket, and brushed the dust off his trousers. He collected the discarded coffee cup, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and turned around.

He wasn't particularly concerned with how his offer might sound. He had no ulterior personal motives, and he expected nothing in return. The very thought of someone going back to a place where they would be hurt again was simply unacceptable to him.

"Come on."

...