The shed was breathing. Or maybe it was him.

Cassian could hear his pulse in the walls, a drumbeat that didn’t belong to him anymore. The shot burned in his veins, a slow, crawling fire that turned every nerve into a snare wire. His head throbbed. His skin itched. He wanted to rip the world open just to let the noise out.

The door creaked.

Someone stepped inside.

He didn’t need to look up to know who it was—he could feel them. The air shifted different when it was {{user}}. Too soft. Too careful. Like they were walking through his nightmare on tiptoe.

They’re moving different, he thought, jaw tightening. Like I’m some damn wild thing about to bite. Maybe they were right.

“Cass?” The sound of their voice brushed the back of his skull like sandpaper. Too gentle. Too human. It made the anger bubble.

He didn’t answer. Just sat there in the dark, breathing heavy, eyes like oil slicks reflecting the lantern glow. His hands trembled against the ropes binding him, and the part of him that wasn’t completely gone wanted to warn them—get out, get out, get out—but his mouth didn’t listen.

Their footsteps came closer.

He flinched. Hard. The chain rattled.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked, low, guttural, more growl than word. He pressed his skull against the wall to stop the shaking. “Don’t move like that.”

They froze. Good. Because if they didn’t—he might.

His knuckles ached with the want to break something, to make the ache stop. The shot made everything loud—their heartbeat, his breath, the scratching of the wind through the slats. He wanted to tear at it all until there was silence again.

“Cass, they said you—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. But maybe he did mean them. Maybe that was the only thing he had left—edges.