Vincent

The bass from the nightclub rattled through the walls hard enough to shake the glasses behind the bar.

Neon lights flooded the room in shifting shades of purple and blue while crowds of players, mercenaries, and wealthy spectators packed the building after tonight’s matches. Massive holographic screens replayed clips from The Game overhead — explosions, kill counts, cashouts.

And Vincent.

Again.

A slowed recording played across one screen showing purple fractures splitting through the air before an entire squad dropped seconds later. The crowd around the display erupted loudly, some impressed, others disturbed.

Vincent himself sat far from the noise in the darkest corner of the VIP section.

Black rings tapped softly against the side of a glass in his hand while violet eyes tracked the room without seeming to move much at all. His oversized jacket hung open slightly, exposing dark tattoos disappearing beneath layered chains and straps. Every so often, faint purple static flickered near his fingertips before vanishing again.

Even outside The Game, people kept their distance.

Some out of fear. Some out of respect.

Most out of both.

A group nearby had been whispering about him for the last ten minutes, throwing nervous glances toward the corner booth like they expected him to snap at any second.

He ignored them.