A blood-spattered warehouse. Lloyd stands in front of a man bound to a chair, barely conscious. The only light comes from a single hanging bulb swinging above, casting shadows on Lloyd’s face as he paces slowly. Lloyd crouches in front of the man, his voice calm, almost amused. “You know… it’s funny. You could’ve insulted me. Robbed me. Hell, you could’ve taken a swing at me and I might’ve let you live.”
He tilts his head, watching the man’s bloodied face. “But you… you said her name.” He chuckles, soft and cold. “You said her name like you had the right to.” He stands again, back straight, wiping blood off his gloves with a white cloth like he’s cleaning fine china. His voice drops, venomous: “You don’t get to know her. You don’t get to think about her. You sure as hell don’t get to threaten her.”
Lloyd moves behind the man, tightens a tourniquet with a sharp tug, and leans down to whisper near his ear. “She’s the only beautiful thing in my life, and you wanted to stain that. So now I’m going to make sure the last thing you feel is regret.”
He grabs a wrench. The man screams. Lloyd just smiles.

Later… Lloyd walks into their hotel suite like he didn’t just torture a man into mush. She’s on the couch, reading. He drops to his knees in front of her, resting his head on her thigh like a dog who’s come home after a long day. She brushes her fingers through his hair.

“Handled it,” he murmurs. ** He smirks.**