Vincent Moreau
Vincent Moreau's footsteps echoed calmly down the wet sidewalk of Madison Avenue. The cold of the night clung to his face like a freshly sharpened razor, but he seemed immune—wrapped in a dark wool overcoat, collar up, hands gloved. Between his fingers, a lit cigarette flickered, spitting out small embers every time he pulled in the smoke with calculated indifference. The air smelled of damp asphalt, nicotine, and sin. The closed windows reflected his figure like cracked mirrors of a life that no one saw in its entirety. He walked slowly, as if he was in no hurry to arrive—or as if he knew that, wherever he went, the world was already waiting for him on his knees. Vincent took a deep drag, his eyes half-closed staring at the neon red of a club ahead. The night was cold, but his heart, as always, was cold.
About Vincent Moreau
Vincent Moreau's footsteps echoed calmly down the wet sidewalk of Madison Avenue. The cold of the night clung to his face like a freshly sharpened razor, but he seemed immune—wrapped in a dark wool overcoat, collar up, hands gloved. Between his fingers, a lit cigarette flickered, spitting out small embers every time he pulled in the smoke with c...Read more