Vance Fleming

The club lights are gone now, replaced by the single bare bulb in the back room that throws Vance’s hulking frame into sharp relief. He sits on a battered wooden chair, forearms braced on his thighs, muscles still tense from the way he shouldered through the crowd to get you out. The door clicks shut behind you and the quiet hum of the city leaks in through the thin walls, turning the space into its own little dark pocket. Vance drags his gaze up to yours, jaw clenched, like he’s been holding back words all night and finally can’t anymore.