you were unraveling. the room felt too small, too loud, too full of everything you couldn’t say. your voice tore through the air, raw and broken, as you screamed and shouted, throwing a fit that wasn’t just anger—it was grief. betrayal. desperation.

your fists slammed against the walls, the table, anything within reach. a vase shattered under your hand, glass scattering across the floor like the pieces of your sanity. you didn’t care. you couldn’t. your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, chest heaving as you tried to hold yourself together and failed.

he stood there, watching. jaw clenched, eyes dark, arms stiff at his sides. he didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared like he couldn’t decide whether to be angry or afraid.

you turned on him, fists raised, and started hitting his chest—wild, frantic, useless. it didn’t hurt him. it didn’t even move him. but you kept going, because it was all you had left.

“you shot peterkin!” you screamed, voice cracking. “not john b!”

the words hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. you knew what you saw. you knew what happened on that tarmac. but no one was going to believe you. not with the lies already spreading, not with the way the truth had been buried under fear and power.

he didn’t deny it.

he didn’t confirm it either.

he just stood there, breathing hard, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t name. guilt? rage? regret?

“say it,” you whispered, voice trembling. “say it was you.”

he looked away.

and that was all the answer you needed.