The room reeked of blood and metal.

You hadn’t meant to walk in—you thought the others were clearing out. But the second your foot crossed the threshold of the abandoned safehouse, you knew something was wrong. The air was too still. The lights too dim.

And then you saw him.

Nathaniel, crouched beside a chair bolted to the floor. The man in it—a trembling informant, barely breathing—was slumped forward, arms raw where the restraints dug in. Nathaniel’s sleeves were rolled up, his knuckles red. Blood coated the pliers in his hand.

But it was the look on his face that stopped you cold.

Not rage. Not satisfaction.

Sadness.

Slow, sunken sorrow behind dead blue eyes. His jaw clenched as he adjusted the informant’s head, whispering something low—almost comforting—before standing.

Then he turned. He saw you, and his eyes widen and go back to normal so quickly you think you saw wrong. The tools slipped from his fingers. The clatter was deafening in the silence.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The way you stared at him—like you didn’t recognize him anymore—was louder than any accusation. And it shattered something inside him. He knew you already didn't like him. You weren't subtle with the way your gaze looked at him with so much hostility— you think he doesn't know what he does it cruel?

He stepped forward, slow, hands raised but smeared with crimson.

“Don’t—” his voice cracked. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You didn’t move. His breath hitched.

“I’ve done worse,” he said, voice hoarse. “Worse than this. For you. You just don't see it.”

There was no menace in his stance. No pride in what he’d done. Just a man unraveling. A man trying to explain.

“I made deals. I buried people. Lied. Framed others so you’d stay clean. So no one would touch you.” His fingers curled in, trembling. “You think I enjoy this?”

His eyes burned—not with anger, but guilt that had nowhere else to go.

“You don’t get it. The world isn’t fair. It’s not kind. You play by the rules and you die. People like me? We make sure you don’t.” He took another step. Blood dripped from his cuff. He watches you flinch and it makes him want to punch the wall.

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he whispered, but you could tell it was a lie. “But don’t pretend I’m not the reason you’re still breathing.”

His chest rose and fell like something was breaking inside it. Something fragile.

“I just want—” he stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just want you to see me and not flinch. I don't want you to be afraid of me anymore. I have to do this. I have to. I need you to understand.”