I lowered myself further, pressing my palm against the soaked carpet. I began to crawl, hunting for glass.
Shards bit into my skin, leaving fine, bloody trails in their wake.
Stella hissed softly, clinging to Sebastian's arm. "My feet hurt."
"Spoiled girl. I'll carry you. It's filthy here."
He scooped her up. His heavy boot came down on the back of my hand, crushing it against the floor as he stepped over me without breaking stride.
I remained on the floor, staring at my mangled hand. A low, broken laugh escaped me.
Tears mingled with the warm, metallic fluid gushing from my nose, dripping onto the ruined carpet together.
The manager recoiled. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're bleeding everywhere."
I staggered upright, wiping my face messily with my sleeve. The fabric turned instantly crimson.
"Maybe... I'm just dying."
Ignoring his stunned expression, I turned away. Blood dripped behind me, forming a broken red line as I dragged myself toward the exit.
When I pushed open the front door, the crash of shattering porcelain echoed from the kitchen.
Sebastian was on the floor, struggling to drag his body toward his overturned wheelchair.
He froze when he saw me. His head dipped, eyes instantly rimmed with red. "Savvy... I just wanted to warm some milk for you... I'm useless... nothing but a cripple..."
His speech was slurred, saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. Between the trembling hands and the look of utter despair, he was the picture of an ALS patient in terminal decline.
I stared at him, remembering the man he used to be. The one with severe OCD who polished his sidearm three times a day and wouldn't tolerate a single crease in his uniform.
Yet for Stella, he had performed this humiliating, sloppy charade for five long years.
I should take a knife. Cut open his chest just to see if his heart is actually made of stone.
When I didn't answer, his shoulders slumped. "Savvy... am I disgusting to you now? Go... don't worry about me."
Silence stretched between us. Finally, I walked over, righted the wheelchair, and hoisted him back into the seat.
I returned with a basin of warm water, silently wiping the grime from his skin.
His fingers clamped around my wrist. His gaze locked onto my palm—raw, abraded, bloody. "How did this happen? Who hurt you?"
I studied the concern in his eyes. It looked so real.