The room reeked of blood and sweat, the kind of smell that clung to your nostrils and refused to let go. Jay hung limp in the iron chair, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. The chains that bound him creaked softly as he shifted, his battered body struggling to find some semblance of relief.
I stood a few feet away, my arms crossed, staring at him like he was a puzzle I couldn't solve. My stomach churned, but not with pity. No, I wasn't capable of that anymore—not for him.
It was anger. Or maybe confusion. Or something in between that I didn't have the words for.
"Why?" I demanded, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
Jay didn't respond. His head lolled to the side, and for a moment, I thought he might have passed out again.
But then, slowly, he raised his head. His lips were cracked and stained with dried blood, his face a grotesque mask of bruises and sweat. He blinked at me, unfocused, as if trying to decide if I was real.
