I walked toward the bunker exit.
Boots echoed loudly against concrete.
Each step carried anger.
Regret.
And something darker.
My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
The skin broke again.
Warm blood slid between my fingers.
The pain grounded me.
Four days ago — when I had shot him in the hand and leg — the rush had felt powerful.
Watching him stagger.
Hearing that sudden grunt.
Seeing control slip from his face for a split second.
It had given me satisfaction.
For three seconds.
Maybe five.
But it hadn’t healed anything.
It hadn’t erased the image of the prison infirmary.
It hadn’t erased the memory of doctors speaking softly about still birth.
It hadn’t erased the way a nurse had wrapped my dead baby in a stained towel like he was disposable.
Like he meant nothing.
I clenched my jaw hard.
I wanted more than blood on his bandages.
More than temporary physical pain.
I wanted him to feel something deeper.
Something permanent.
Something that would mirror the hollow cavity inside my chest.
I wanted him to wake up one day and understand that my grief wasn’t theoretical.
It wasn’t manipulation.
It was loss.
