The helplessness.
The shame.
The rage that had kept me alive when despair tried to swallow me.
I didn’t think.
I moved.
I launched myself off the floor and drove my fist straight into his jaw.
The impact was solid.
Satisfying.
His head snapped sideways and he staggered back, surprise flashing across his face.
I didn’t give him time to recover.
Another punch—this one landing square across his nose.
Cartilage cracked under my knuckles.
Blood burst.
He cursed.
A third strike followed—aimed at his temple.
His knees buckled.
I stepped forward and drove my knee into his groin.
He doubled over with a strangled gasp.
“Hargrove, fucking defend yourself!” Harris barked, taking a cautious step back but not intervening.
Good.
He wasn’t planning to jump in—yet.
Hargrove swung blindly at me.
His fist grazed my shoulder.
I ducked under it effortlessly, using the momentum to drive my elbow into his floating ribs.
A sharp crack.
He wheezed.
I hooked my foot behind his ankle and shoved.
He crashed to the floor.
Hard.
Dust rose around us.
