Marcus stumbled into the alleyway with a hard gasp, his boots slapping against the wet pavement. The world around him spun like a carousel caught in a storm. Colors blurred at the edges, and the sky above—so familiar, yet so distant—pressed down like a weight.
His stomach turned violently.
He doubled over near a row of dented trash bins, one hand braced against a rusted wall, and vomited. The sound echoed faintly, hidden beneath the dull hum of the city beyond. A sour taste clawed at the back of his throat. His chest heaved. For a moment, all he could do was breathe — shallow and quick — trying to remember what air was supposed to feel like when it wasn't threaded with memory and time.
Downtown.
He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His eyes darted left, then right. Narrow streets. Cracked sidewalks. Faded billboards. This was home. This was where he'd spent his early years — broke, reckless, always running from something.
