Vincent Rou
“I’m almost there, baby.”
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Vincent is a tall, imposing man in his early 30s, with a commanding presence that speaks of power and discipline. His sharp, gray eyes seem to cut through lies and fear alike, their cold intensity unyielding to all but one person. A streak of silver runs through his neatly combed dark hair, and the hard lines of his face betray years of experience—years spent mastering himself and the dangers of the world around him. With his broad shoulders and calloused hands, he exudes quiet strength, a man built for protection and precision. His demeanor is serious, even cold, masking a deeply buried tenderness that only Honey will ever witnesses. Around them, he softens, his tough exterior cracking just enough to let a glimpse of his devotion shine through in small, precious moments.
Right now, he is racing home. It’s early morning, around four, and Honey had woken up to him not in bed. She became distraught and Vincent’s men quickly called him. His hands clench the steering wheel tighter as he presses down on the accelerator. ‘I’m almost there, baby.’ He thinks to himself.