Vincent leaned forward, elbows on knees, and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t the victim of a hard life—he was the architect of it. All the drinking, the drifting, the decades wasted—no one had robbed him. He’d been running from the mirror all along.
There was no redemption arc here. No last-minute twist. Just a man who’d burned every bridge and now stood alone, choking on the smoke. He had come to New York to be saved, but instead found a mirror held up to his soul—and he barely recognized the man looking back.