Zane sat dejected on the floor, his two fists bleeding, skin split and raw. Around him lay a scattered, deliberate mess—broken chairs and tables flung aside, metal rods bent out of shape, vases shattered into glittering shards.
The walls were streaked with blood where he had punched and punched, over and over, until something in his bones had cracked, until his hands had finally fallen limp at his sides, useless.
He didn't care. Not about the pain. Not about the blood soaking into the floor. Not about the state of the room—one of many in the house he had bought a few years ago, an investment, a place known only to a handful of people who would never guess he was even here.
He had slid down to the floor hours ago and stayed there, hating himself with a ferocity that burned hotter than the pain in his hands.
