–Damon–
Blood crusted the seams of my palm and darkened the fabric at my sleeves. I had given them time—time to beg, time to understand what their screams tasted like—because answers needed to be earned. I did not kill cleanly. I made sure their last moments were unforgettable, precise in cruelty; a slow ledger paid in bone and bone-deep regret. They had hurt my wife. For that, they received more than they deserved. For that, they received tenfold. For that, they received what they could not imagine.
Now she carried our child. So the debt multiplied itself in my head until it glowed: every hand that reached for her would be broken into a dozen pieces first.
