The sun was sliding down the sky, bleeding into a dull orange haze that painted the broken rooftops and cracked walls in weary gold. Vincent's legs ached, each step a protest against the hours they'd trudged through alleys reeking of rust and lingering rain.
Shuttered shops loomed like silent sentinels, their peeling posters fluttering in the breeze, a testament to a town forgotten. His patience, too, was fraying, worn thin by the endless search.
"Excuse me," Marcus called, his voice polite yet weary as he flagged down another passerby a man with a grocery bag in one hand and exhaustion etched into his eyes.
"Do you know anyone named James? James Lockwood, maybe?"
The man barely slowed, shrugging with a grunt. "No idea. Don't know anyone by that name." His footsteps faded into the dim street, leaving silence broken only by the hum of a distant car and the faint clink of a bottle someone kicked aside.
