December, 1994
Manhattan.
Police sirens wailed through the midnight air, a chaotic soundtrack to a crowd frozen under falling snow, watching with tension thick as the ice around them. A group of sheriffs had their guns aimed at a phone booth on a street corner—the epicenter of it all.
The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against a girl's temple, more chilling than the night itself, stoking the fear inside her. Meanwhile, her captor—a man holding a revolver—looked unnervingly calm.
"Go ahead and shoot, and this girl's head will have a new hole in it," he warned, dragging from a cigarette before flicking it to the asphalt and grinding it out with his boot.
The sheriffs' faces tightened as they searched for a solution, anything to neutralize the man without harming the girl.
"Move!" he barked, tightening his grip around the girl's neck, finger poised on the trigger.
There was no other choice—release the criminal, save the hostage. Slowly, the sheriffs lowered their guns. A crooked smile curled across the handsome man's face as he stepped out of the booth, dragging the girl with him. His sharp blue eyes darted around the scene, alert to any sheriff who might risk a shot in the tension.
The girl screamed as she was shoved into a car. The man slid in beside her, still holding the gun to her temple without pause. He turned the key. The Mercedes-Benz screeched onto the icy road, crashing through parked cars that dared to block its path.
Then came the director's cue—ending the entire performance.
The sheriffs and civilians broke character with relieved grins. They were extras, background players in a film shoot. The hostage scene at the phone booth was wrapped.
Crew members bustled around, resetting the location. Soon, the actor who played the kidnapper emerged with the actress who had played the victim. A makeup artist approached, touching up the sweat and snow-melt on his face.
"One more scene and we're done for the day," called a middle-aged man from a folding chair labeled DIRECTOR. He wore a faded denim jacket with a fraying collar, a loose black T-shirt, and worn khaki pants cuffed at the ankles. An old leather baseball cap rested crookedly atop his head, revealing graying curls. Between his fingers was an unlit cigarette, and in the other hand, a chipped enamel coffee mug. His eyes were focused on the small monitor in front of him with the calm intensity of a seasoned New York indie filmmaker from the early '90s.
The actor gave a quiet nod. The next scene was tougher—he had to stand on the edge of a moving car door and fire at pursuing sheriffs in a high-speed chase.
They had a stunt double ready, complete with safety cables and camera angles carefully planned. But the young man had insisted on doing it himself. "To get into character," he had said, with a calm finality that silenced further objections. Both his manager and the director had tried to talk him down—eventually giving up.
Once his makeup and hair were set—just enough powder to soften the shine and a careful mess of blond locks to maintain that artful dishevelment—he slipped his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket and walked over to his co-star, the young brunette actress who had played the hostage.
"Was I too rough when I shoved you?" he asked, bending slightly, gently checking her wrist.
The girl, Alice, looked at him. Her hazel eyes were calm—no hint of discomfort. She let him hold her hand, the warmth of the touch more comforting than painful.
"No. I liked the way you did it. Very... committed," she smiled, her lips curling into a sincere grin as her gaze lingered in his clear blue eyes.
Joey smiled—part shy, part amused. "Careful with the compliments," he chuckled, "or I'll get a big head." His laugh was light, youthful—still carrying traces of innocence.
They chatted briefly—about the script, camera angles, and the creeping cold—before being called back to shoot the final scene of the day.
Joey James Carter, an eighteen-year-old rising star for the past three years, had already won two Emmy nominations—for Best New Actor and Best Lead Actor in the hit TV series A Genius Criminal. With high ratings, a second season was greenlit this year, with Joey returning as the lead alongside Alice Garwood—a former child star who would eventually become his on-screen love interest.
He portrayed Kevin Richardson, a 23-year-old antihero who pursued justice by his own rules—a street-level vigilante with the morality of Batman but the twisted charm of the Joker. Manipulative, cunning, and unapologetically violent, Kevin killed wrongdoers on the spot without offering redemption.
"This world is cruel and unjust. If you want justice, you have to be crueler."
That line had convinced Joey to take the role when Charlie Douglas, the writer-director, first offered it. Viewers praised Joey's nuanced performance, and Joey, in turn, credited Charlie for creating such a compelling character.
Skyscrapers lit the sky in neon and sparkle. New York City—modern life's glittering stage—gleamed from every angle. As the car passed Times Square, Joey gazed out the window with faint boredom. Billboards flashed across the buildings—one enormous screen displaying his own face.
The car finally stopped. Joey, teetering on the edge of sleep, felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Joey?" called Sheira, his personal assistant.
He startled slightly, glancing around. They were in the underground parking of his apartment building.
"You seem more tired than usual," Sheira said, turning off the engine. She was three years older, and could be anything—driver, friend, big sister. She always knew how he was feeling, even without him saying a word.
Joey gave her a weak smile and waved a dismissive hand.
"Rest. I cleared your schedule for tomorrow so you can take it easy," she added, voice laced with care.
They stepped out of the car. Joey stretched to shake off the sleep as they headed toward the elevator. Sheira carried some of his things.
"Thanks for worrying about me. Just remember to take care of yourself too."
Sheira smiled. "It's part of the job."
"You're the best," Joey said, flashing his access card for the elevator and apartment door.
Inside the elevator, Joey turned toward her—pulling her in for a kiss. That moment, just before the doors closed, was the last glimpse of them together.
A moment later, a window in a nearby black sedan rolled down.
Inside was a man in dark glasses, watching the elevator where Joey and Sheira had vanished.
---
"Don't you want to rest?" Sheira asked calmly, scanning his closet. When Joey came in, he went straight to the bathroom without a word. Only the sound of running water told her he was there—maybe washing off the day, or something deeper.
Sheira, meanwhile, got to work.
She unpacked neatly ironed clothes from her bag, replaced wrinkled shirts in his closet, laid out a black blazer for an upcoming talk show, a white linen shirt for a photo shoot, and a soft gray sweater Joey liked for cold days. She checked his vitamins, refilled the water jug, opened the window a crack for fresh air, and reviewed Joey's upcoming schedule.
The apartment always felt more like a "stopover" than a home. Tidy, functional, but somehow impersonal—like Joey had never fully moved into himself.
Bare feet padded across the floor.
Joey returned from the shower, blond hair dripping over a loosely tied blue bathrobe. He pulled out a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and wandered into the bedroom.
A pair of arms wrapped around Sheira's waist.
"Joey, stop!" she said. She knew his moods too well, and the ambiguous air he carried when tired or playful.
But Joey didn't let go right away. Instead, he leaned in, breathing in her scent.
"Is this how you treat older women—ignoring their requests?"
He sighed and released her, grumbling.
"Stop talking about the age difference," he said.
Sheira laughed softly and turned to face him, her eyes gentle but firm—the kind of look only someone who knows too much and judges too little can give.
"Put on your pajamas. Don't sleep in just a robe—you'll catch a cold."
She ruffled his hair affectionately.
Joey caught her hand and kissed each finger flirtatiously, making her sigh.
"Do as I say, okay?" She handed him the pajamas. Joey reluctantly obeyed.
After checking the script and a document Joey needed to sign in the morning, she placed everything neatly on his desk.
It was nearly midnight.
"Not staying over?" Joey asked with that charming smile he used when flirting.
"Don't tease me, naughty boy."
She pinched his cheek before grabbing her bag. "See ya."
Joey just nodded, saying nothing as the door closed behind her.
As always, silence took over the room the moment she left.
Joey fell back onto the bed, staring at the pale ceiling.
Solitude brought peace—but also a hollow that gnawed at him.
No sound. No music. Just the ticking clock and a buzzing old heater.
Then—a buzz.
His Motorola phone, buried under scripts and a notebook full of scribbles, vibrated faintly.
Joey lifted his head, squinting.
An unknown number.
But he knew. Too well.
It never had a name—but the message was always the same:
"Come down to the basement. Someone's waiting."
No greeting. No timestamp.
Like a summons from the past that arrived on its own terms.
Joey exhaled, as if trying to purge something from inside—but all that came out was weariness.
He got up, grabbed a black pea coat from the sofa—faintly smelling of alcohol that wasn't his—and donned a black bowler hat low over his face.
He glanced at his reflection. Blue eyes, empty yet sharp.
He locked the door and stepped into the night.
---
In the basement, as promised, a man leaned against a black Jaguar.
The car door was already open—offering no space for questions or refusals.
Joey got in.
The man followed without a word.
The car moved—no destination spoken, just understood.
Joey leaned his head against the window, watching the city lights blur by like memories he didn't ask to remember.
He didn't need to ask where they were going.
He knew.
Tonight wasn't about leaving—it was about returning.
Returning to someone.
Returning to the grasp that never truly let go.
---
They arrived at the top floor of an upscale Manhattan building, standing in front of a dark brown door.
As the man reached to knock, Joey pushed the door open himself.
Inside, dim lights glowed. A man stood with his back to them, wine glass in hand, gazing through floor-to-ceiling windows at the glowing city skyline.
He turned—sharp hazel eyes, a defined jaw with light stubble, full lips, a presence both magnetic and cold.
He looked at Joey, who stood silently three meters away. The air between them was charged.
"Drink with me," the man said—his baritone a command.
Joey scoffed. "You sent your men just to have a drink?"
"Come on. Like this is the first time." The man moved to the couch, poured wine from a bottle already open, and leaned back with casual arrogance.
"Sit down. Take off your coat."
Joey didn't move.
"Dom, I'm tired. I just want to rest," Joey said, voice rising.
"Then why not just obey me? I could make you far more tired than you already are."
With a sigh, Joey tossed off his coat, revealing the pajamas he hadn't changed. He sat down beside Dom, who slung an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close.
"Want some wine?" he offered. Joey didn't drink. Dom knew. It was just mockery—Joey would always be a boy in Dom's eyes, the one who used to ask for chocolate milk before bed.
Joey stared at the wine bottle—vintage 1968. Would one sip be enough to knock him out? Maybe he wouldn't have to stay conscious through this night.
"Give it here." Joey grabbed the glass. The scent alone made him grimace. He sipped—and nearly gagged.
Dom chuckled, took the glass back, and downed the rest. Then—without warning—he pulled Joey's jaw and transferred the wine from his mouth into Joey's.
Joey coughed as it went down, gripping Dom's arm.
But Dom was in a good mood tonight. He didn't do anything else. Just let Joey fall asleep with his head on his thigh.
Joey's expression was peaceful, but weary.
Dom's hand stroked the golden strands of his hair while he sipped more wine.
The night deepened.
Outside the glass walls, Manhattan glittered.
And inside, Joey slept—finally still, even if just for a while.