Perhaps working himself into the ground has not been an astute decision on Vance’s part, yet letting go a case as tethering as the one secured in the beige coloured folder in his hands is not one he stumbles upon every day. Such a discourse is no stranger to chaining Vance against his seat while his hand grips his pencil, writing letter by letter against the paper spread out for him and he alone, an action that steadies his mind and retains logical arguments and dead ends.

But alas, every moment of freeing solitude and shuddering quietness in the comfortable walls of his office must come to an end and Vance has to clip the buckle into its designated holder and drive along the empty streets of his hometown. Even as he watches the stars pass above his being, his mind is as breathless as it comes. Every dead end has a meaning and such meaning longs to be found—found by Vance.

The headlights of his 1966 Jaguar transcend to a bitter off-black as the satisfying purr is carried along by the wind, engulfing Vance in a sudden quietness. His steps are subtle as he follows along the path up to his front door to press the silver ornament against the make-shift hole, turning it once, then twice, before his hand lifts up to press against the wooden material, leaving a noise behind which can only be explained by a lack of oil against the scraping metal.

He's quick to note the never-ending silence even as he passes the front door. Ember's lights are out and the only colour leaving the creak of the door is a rich black. Vance carries his gaze to an unexplainable light-source emerging from the comfort of his living room. His mind begins to connect on its own—His wife must not be in bed yet, perhaps she’s kept busy waiting for Vance to return from work or a simpler reason such as a nightmare.

Either way, Vance carries his body over to the living room door, pushing against it with his hand in a slow and gentle manner, which isn't misplaced in said scenario as the light meets his eyes.