Teeth broke loose and scattered across the floor like debris.
The man’s body jerked with every hit, his hands scrambling weakly at Vincenzo’s arm, but there was no stopping him.
His face collapsed under the assault—nose flattened, cheekbone caved.
One eye swelling shut within seconds.
He sagged—but Vincenzo held him up.
Kept him there.
Blood poured from every split, turning his features into a slick, unrecognizable mask.
The man’s arms finally came up—too late, too slow.
Vincenzo’s fist slammed into his temple with a sickening impact that echoed in the room.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each blow driven with brutal, unrestrained force.
The man’s body went slack again.
His knees buckled.
Then he slid down the wall, leaving a smeared trail of red behind him as he collapsed into a lifeless heap on the floor.
For a moment—the only sound left was the echo of fists hitting flesh... fading into silence.
Vincenzo kept striking, even after the body had stopped moving.
Even after the man’s head lolled to the side, unresponsive, eyes unfocused, lifeless.
He kept striking.
Hard.
Relentless.
Driven by something that looked less like rage and more like something breaking apart inside him.
Only when his breathing grew heavier—ragged, uneven—did the motion begin to slow.
His shoulders rose and fell sharply.
Chest heaving.
Then, finally—he stopped.
Straightened.
Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the tile, forming small, dark drops that spread outward in slow, uneven patterns.
A new presence filled the doorway.
