-Ezra:
I don't know what's wrong with me.
The thought doesn't come once—it echoes, over and over, pressing against the inside of my skull as I stand there, surrounded by the aftermath. The air is thick with blood, heavy and metallic, clinging to every breath I take, coating the back of my throat. It's on my hands, dripping slowly from my fingers, warm against my skin before it cools. It's soaked into the ground beneath my feet, dark and spreading, seeping into the roots of the trees as it belongs there.
It should feel normal.
It always has.
Violence. Survival. Tearing through anything that comes at me before it can tear through me—that's all I've ever known. That's how I've stayed alive.
But this… this doesn't feel the same.
Not anymore.
Not after him.
