Soren stood before the sink.
Water rushed over his hands. It was cold and relentless, carrying thin rivers of red into the drain.
He watched it swirl away, vanish into nothing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But the blood did not leave.
Handler's scream burned in his ears.
Flames crawling up a wall.
Skin blistering.
The man clawing at his face, begging, while fire devoured him alive.
Soren shut his eyes. But it was not over.
Ratler came next.
The rush of movement.
The sound of his end — not a crack, not a snap — but something wet and final.
The man's chest collapsing inward.
Blood spraying his arm.
Then Slacker.
There was no scream.
And there was no struggle.
Only a long breath… Guilty eyes staring at him.
And a body falling.
Soren's hands began to tremble.
He pressed them harder beneath the running water, scrubbing until his skin reddened, until it stung.
He wanted the water wash it clean, wash the memory, the guilt. The blood in his mind.
