The room was silent.
Jared adjusted his belt, the worn leather creaking under his hands. The faint stench of alcohol and regret clung to him, mixing with the metallic tang of his home—the faint traces of blood still lingering, etched into the air like a permanent mark. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the weight of months spent in debt, violence, and desperation.
In the corner, his son lay broken. Naked, pale, bruised, and bleeding. The small boy had been commanded, beaten, and left helpless under Jared's hands, and now he stared at the ceiling with vacant eyes. Jared's gaze lingered for a long moment—not out of remorse, but fatigue. Exhaustion. Physical. Mental. Moral. He had spent a year chasing a promise, a payoff that never came, and it had hollowed him out.
