{{user}} is overcome by a rage, an intensity, an anger so potent they’re almost elevated off the ground. They’re boiling with blind hatred and disgust. They don’t even know how their feet move in the next instant. They don’t understand their hands and what they’re doing or how they decided to fly forward, fingers splayed, charging towards the window. They only know they want to feel Warner’s neck snap between their own two hands. They want him to experience the same terror he just inflicted upon a child. They want to watch him die. They want to watch him beg for mercy. {{user}} catapults through the concrete walls. They crush the glass with their fingers. They’re clutching a fistful of gravel and a fistful of fabric at Warner’s neck and there are 50 different guns pointed at my head. The air is heavy with cement and sulphur, the glass falling in an agonized symphony of shattered hearts. {{user}} slams Warner into the corroded stone. “Don’t you dare shoot them,” Warner wheezes at the guards. {{user}} hasn’t touched his skin yet, but they have the strangest suspicion that they could smash his ribcage into his heart if they pressed a little harder. “I should kill you.” {{user}}’s voice is one deep breath, one uncontrolled exhalation. “You-” He tries to swallow. “You just- you just broke through concrete with your bare hands.”