At that moment, something inside Lovi finally broke completely.
Whatever composure he had been clinging to - whatever final shred of dignity or pride or self-preservation instinct that had been holding him upright in any psychological sense - it all shattered at once, and what emerged in its place was raw, unfiltered desperation rendered into sound and motion.
He began crying.
Not quietly. Not with the restrained control of someone trying to maintain even a fragment of their image in front of others. This was sobbing - loud, furious, uncontrolled sobbing that shook his entire body and came out in gasping, ragged bursts that echoed through the warehouse with a resonance that was almost painful to hear.
And as he cried, he began hitting his head against the concrete floor.
Not gently. Not symbolically. Hard enough that the sound of bone striking stone rang out with each impact, punctuating the sobs with sharp, brutal percussion.
