Minutes crawled by in the dim bedroom, each second stretching into an eternity, the air thick and oppressive with the raw, musky scent of sweat, cum, and forbidden sex, a primal aroma that clung to the walls like a stain.
The crucifix above the bed cast a long, accusing shadow across the hardwood floor, its dark silhouette stretching toward Thorne's crumpled body like a finger of divine wrath, pointing at his ruin.
Thorne lay slumped against the baseboard, his body limp and heavy as a sack of broken bones, his once crisp suit now a tattered shroud. buttons missing, tie dangling like a noose, fabric torn and soaked with sweat and tears. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, each one a struggle against the unconsciousness that held him like a merciful shroud, shielding him from the nightmare his life had become.
