Madison and I had barely crossed the threshold—exhaustion slammed into me like a physical wave, a tidal wave of lead threatening to buckle my knees. The aftershocks of Sofia's confession, razor-wire strategic planning, the white-hot rage I'd throttled all evening—it wasn't fatigue. It was annihilation.
A void where my energy used to pulse, cold and hollow.
"You look like hell incarnate," Madison murmured, her hand a brand of warmth against my trembling bicep as we staggered up the stairs. Her scent—clean, familiar, human—a lifeline thrown into a storm. "When's the last time you really slept?"
I dragged a hand through my hair, thoughts thick as tar, heavy as slate. "Slept? Not just crashed out?" A harsh laugh scraped my throat. "Fuck... days. Maybe a week."
"Peter, that's not sustainable." Her voice held a quiet worry that only tightened the barbed wire coiling in my gut.
