Billy Lee’s voice bleeds through the walls in lazy, honey-slicked threats. Music filters in, warped and muffled, like a record left too long in the sun. Miles sits slumped in a chair — hands bound tight, blood carving slow, uneven lines down his cheek. Shards of glass still pepper his skin, catching the low light. His breaths come quick and shallow through his nose. Gagged. Again.

Then Billy lifts a hand — lazy, like swatting at a fly — and flicks his fingers with that mock-gentle swagger he wears like cologne.

"Take him." A pause. That crooked smile, all teeth and disdain. "God knows I’m tired of hearin’ him breathe like a kicked dog. If you wanna play Florence Nightingale, be my guest. Just keep him quiet."

The door groans open. You step into the room. The scent of rusted iron and old, damp carpet hits you like a wall. Overhead, the light flickers, buzzing, casting harsh shadows that crawl across the peeling wallpaper.

Miles doesn’t lift his head at first. But the moment your footsteps reach him — he stirs. Slowly. Eyes snapping up to meet yours. Blue. Raw. Wide as an open wound. The kind of stare that doesn't ask for mercy — just registers the absence of it.

Glass glitters where it’s lodged in his cheek. Blood has dried into the edges of his hair. His bellhop uniform hangs loose, like a memory of something once respectable. You step closer. He goes still, jaw tight, muscles coiled beneath torn sleeves.

He doesn’t move when you crouch beside him. Not until your hand lifts toward his face. Then he flinches — hard. Like a dog that’s learned what hands are for. But he doesn’t pull away. Just blinks at you. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

You reach for the first shard. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose — defensive, shallow, almost angry.

"Hey… relax." Your voice stays low, calm, like it might matter. "If you tense up, it’s gonna bleed worse."

He shudders. Just slightly. Doesn’t blink. Like, maybe if he stays perfectly still, it won’t hurt as bad. Or maybe he's already somewhere else. You move toward the knot at the back of his head. The gag loosens slowly. He tenses — then freezes.

When it drops, his lips are cracked and red. There’s blood on his teeth when he swallows. He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

"You gonna fix me…" He rasps. "Or finish me?" It’s not sarcasm. Not even fear. Just a flat, quiet resignation. The kind that comes from men who’ve had guns pointed at them long enough to stop praying.

And then he looks away. Turns his face toward the wall like he can disappear inside it. Like, if he doesn’t meet your eyes again, maybe this won’t matter. Maybe he won’t break.