The sun was high when we stepped out of the warehouse.
The light was too clean, too bright for what we'd left behind, and for a second it made the blood on my hands feel wrong—like I'd dragged something rotten into a place it didn't belong.
Cam didn't say a word as we crossed the gravel. Neither did I. The air hummed with the leftover noise of screams, the kind that still rang in your skull after they stopped.
I'd told myself I'd just watch. Sit back and let Gray do what Gray does best.
But that man… he made something in me snap.
The first hit had been instinct. A low swing, the hammer's head catching bone in the man's lap with a dull, meat-thick thud. He'd arched in the chair, choking on his own scream, and still I'd swung again. And again. Not fast, not wild—just steady. Each impact sinking deeper, until I couldn't tell if it was his voice breaking or mine.
