The room had an unpleasant odor of chemicals and regret.
The walls were damp, plaster cracking under the strain of humidity, and the ceiling light flickering in a tired rhythm that matched his pulse. Benedict sat hunched at the table, his once-impeccable posture reduced to a slouch born of exhaustion. The air was thick with suppressant fumes, half-evaporated from the glass vials scattered around him. Each breath scraped down his throat like rust.
He pressed the injector against his skin, the hiss of the serum loud in the silence. For a few seconds, the world steadied, his heartbeat slowed, and his vision cleared, but the reprieve never lasted. It never did. The suppressants were losing their grip on him, and so was he.
He exhaled shakily. "Still breathing," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Still mine."
He repeated it to himself frequently these days, as if it were a ritual to keep him grounded. It wasn't working.
