Crimson Ties

Suddenly, a blur of orange fur darted out from behind a stack of pallets. A fat ginger cat trotted into the open, yawning lazily as if it had just woken up from a nap.

Simon stopped in his tracks, exhaling a sharp breath. He crouched down, shaking his head. "Nibbles, you scared the hell out of me everytime," he muttered, scooping the cat up with ease.

The feline offered no resistance, letting itself be held with an air of royal indifference. Simon fished a small sausage out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and held it out. "Here," he said softly. "This is what you wanted, huh?"

The cat purred contentedly, nibbling at the treat. Simon's tense posture relaxed, and he stroked the animal's fur with absentminded affection.

Vince watched from his hiding spot, the surreal moment disarming him in a way he hadn't expected. Simon, the man who had seemed so calculating and untouchable, now cradled a fat ginger cat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Deciding he had seen enough for now, Vince slipped out of the construction site and into the night.

The streets whispered of decay as Vince made his way back to the decrepit house Simon had visited. His footsteps were deliberate, yet slow, as if each step carried the weight of unanswered questions. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed it. His mind was elsewhere, twisting and circling like the city's labyrinthine streets.

What was Simon doing? Vince tried to piece it together, but the threads of logic kept fraying in his hands. The man wasn't behaving like someone hiding skeletons in his closet—or was he? His interactions tonight had been almost saintly. Breaking up a fight among kids, chatting with factory workers, giving daisies to a woman who looked like she'd seen better decades. It was the kind of thing that painted Simon as a damn community guardian, not the kind of guy Vince should be suspicious of.

And yet, Vince couldn't shake it. There was something wrong. Something off.

He kicked a stray can out of his way, watching it skitter and clang against a cracked curb. His breath fogged in the cold night, but the air felt heavier now, pressing on him like an unwelcome hand. Was Simon really just a good guy? The thought gnawed at him, a small but insistent itch he couldn't scratch. He wanted to believe it—wanted to think that Simon was just another cop trying to do his best in a city that chewed up good intentions and spat out ruins.

But then there was the call. The old, battered phone Simon had pulled out, the way he'd whispered into it with an urgency that didn't match his earlier demeanor. "I've been discovered." Vince's brow furrowed at the memory. Discovered? By who? Him? Was Simon talking about him?

His steps slowed as he neared the house, and his thoughts grew darker. Maybe Simon wasn't as clean as he looked. Maybe Vince was seeing the tip of an iceberg, a polished surface hiding something rotten underneath. That was the problem with people like Simon—they wore their masks so well you started questioning if you were the one in the wrong for doubting them.

His hand brushed against the coarse brick of a nearby building, grounding him as his mind started spiraling. And what about the house? What had Simon been doing inside? Vince chewed the inside of his cheek, glancing down at his scuffed boots. The way the man had lingered, the deliberate slowness of his exit—something had happened in there.

He reached the edge of the block, the decrepit house coming into view through the gloom. Vince stopped for a moment, staring at the slanted roof and darkened windows. The air here was colder, the silence deeper. His breath came out in small, uneven puffs.

The dim light seeping through the cracked window didn't reveal much, leaving him to guess what lay beyond. The door hung slightly ajar, but the angle was wrong—he couldn't see inside without stepping closer. Improvising was second nature to him, but walking into this blind had his nerves on edge. He wasn't here to blow his cover or make the wrong move. He needed to tread carefully.

Knocking lightly on the weathered door, he leaned just enough to catch a sound. Inside, soft voices drifted through—a woman's soothing tone and a younger man's spirited reply, tinged with laughter. He straightened, running a hand over his jaw, already piecing together his angle.

The door opened a crack, revealing an older woman with tired but kind eyes, her graying hair pulled back loosely. Her lined face held an expression somewhere between curiosity and concern.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice cautious but polite.

Vince offered a disarming smile, his tone warm. "Hi, ma'am. I hope I'm not intruding. I'm a friend of Simon Burke's."

Her expression softened at the mention of the name, and she opened the door wider. "Oh, Simon... of course. Please, come in."

Stepping inside, Vince took in the modest living room. Worn furniture surrounded a small coffee table cluttered with sewing supplies. In the corner, a young man sat in a wheelchair, his legs still and covered with a blanket. Despite his condition, his face lit up with a bright, welcoming smile. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a casual confidence about him—dark hair slightly tousled and an easy grin that reached his eyes.

"Another one of Simon's strays?" the young man teased, his voice light, though not unkind.

Vince chuckled, easing into the room. "Guess you could say that. Name's Vince."

The woman, Helena, motioned toward a chair. "Please, have a seat, Mr. Vince. Can I get you anything? Tea, water?"

"No, I'm good, thank you." He sat down, glancing at the young man. "And you must be...?"

"Tommy," the younger man replied, extending a hand, which Vince shook firmly. "Well, Thomas, officially, but no one calls me that. You a cop like Simon?"

"Something like that," Vince said, his tone vague but friendly, allowing the mystery to linger. He glanced around the room briefly, noting the small personal touches: a faded family photo on a side table, a hand-knit blanket draped over the back of a chair, and a stack of books next to Tommy's wheelchair. It wasn't much, but it felt like a space clung to with quiet dignity, even in hardship.

Tommy tilted his head, studying Vince with an appraising gaze. "So, what is it, then? You some kind of detective, a freelancer, or just someone who sticks their nose where it doesn't belong?"

Vince smirked faintly. "Little of all three, depending on the day. You've got a sharp tongue, kid."

"Helps pass the time," Tommy quipped, grinning. "Though, if you're really Simon's friend, I'm guessing you're not here for tea and a chat."

Helena cleared her throat, cutting in gently. "Tommy, behave. Simon has always been kind to us."

Vince nodded appreciatively toward her, letting her interjection soften the mood. "Simon's a good man," he said evenly, then shifted his attention back to Tommy, his expression unreadable but kind. His eyes dipped to the wheelchair, the moment hanging in the air before he finally spoke. "You look like you're holding up well, Tommy. Mind if I ask about your condition?"

Helena's hands stilled where they had been fiddling with her apron, her face shadowed with hesitation. "It's...not something we talk about often," she said softly, her gaze flitting nervously to her son.

Vince's voice dropped a note, steady and patient. "I understand. It's not my intention to pry, but sometimes knowing a bit of the past helps me see the bigger picture. That's all."

Tommy looked at his mother, giving her a reassuring smile. "Ma, it's fine. Really." He turned back to Vince, his usual humor dimmed but not gone. "You're just curious, right? Not here to pity me or dig up dirt?"

"Not my style," Vince replied simply. "Sometimes understanding things helps me do what I need to do."

Tommy's grin widened slightly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Alright, then. If you're gonna hear it, you might as well hear it from me. It all started…"

6 years ago

Saturday, August 4, 2018

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

1232 Havenbrook Street

It was a bright, crisp morning, one of those rare days when the sun seemed to shine just a little more than usual. Inside the Brown household, the kitchen smelled of coffee, burnt toast, and faint detergent. Helena, in her early 40s, stood at the counter, preparing breakfast. Her worn hands, rough from years of knitting for local businesses, moved gracefully over the ingredients. Short chestnut-brown hair framed her face, a few strands falling loose over her forehead. Despite the lines around her eyes, there was still a youthful spark in her expression—a quiet strength that anchored the family.

"Tommy! Get up, we're heading to the bank today!" Keith called from the living room, his voice betraying excitement he tried to hide.

From the bedroom, Tommy groaned, his voice muffled by the blanket wrapped around him. "Dad, can't I sleep in? It's Saturday..."

Keith chuckled and walked into the room. At 14, Tommy was already taller than his father, his shaggy, light brown hair falling into his green eyes, giving him a messy, distracted look. He rubbed his eyes, his face still carrying the innocence of childhood despite his height. His clothes—old T-shirt and oversized jeans—hung loosely on his slender frame. Keith, his large, weathered frame more rugged than his son's, smiled with pride as he pulled the blanket off.

"We're going to the bank," Keith said, ruffling Tommy's hair. "I've got some money saved up for you. For school."

Tommy blinked, his voice full of disbelief. "Wait—what? You saved up for that?"

Keith nodded, his square-jawed face softening. "I've been putting away a little here and there. I want you to have everything you need for high school."

Tommy's jaw dropped. He had grown used to promises that didn't follow through, but this felt different. His father, tough and often silent, rarely made such gestures.

"You serious?" Tommy asked, awe in his voice.

Helena entered just then, her soft yet determined eyes lighting up when she saw the exchange. She was the heart of the family—always strong, always hopeful. She walked over and kissed Tommy's forehead, her presence calming.

"You deserve it, Tommy," she said, adjusting his messy hair. "You're growing up. High school's the next step."

Tommy felt a lump in his throat. His mom, with her quiet strength and deep love, had always been there for him. The weight of his parents' sacrifices pressed on him in that moment, and he stood, blinking away the sudden emotion.

"Thanks, Mom," he murmured.

She smiled warmly, her hands resting briefly on his shoulder. "Let's get going. Today's all about you."

Keith grinned, lightening the mood. "Yeah, yeah. We'll get you those supplies. Clothes, maybe. Whatever you want."

Tommy's eyes lit up, and for the first time in a while, excitement bubbled up inside him. The whole day felt like a gift. After having breakfast, they left the house together, Helena stood between Keith and Tommy, her grace evident despite their modest life. Keith, in his old jeans and worn jacket, walked confidently beside his son, and the family moved through their neighborhood with a renewed sense of hope. This moment was small, but to Tommy, it felt like the beginning of something grand.