Come on,he urged his unresponsive body.Just react normally. This is what you're supposed to want.
He just had to stay there. Stay present. Don't drift. Don't remember. Don't think about the cold stone of the Institute floor, or the rasp of Gerard's voice, or the way hands didn't have to be rough to hurt.
He clung to every sensation, cataloging them like evidence: the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her hands, the gentle pressure. But none of them sank in. They hit the wall he'd built in his mind and scattered like rain on stone.
Why isn't this working?
His body didn't respond. His skin couldn't feel any of it, not really. He was watching it happen to someone else.
She noticed, of course. Tried to shift the rhythm, tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn't look at her. Looking would break his concentration, and then the memories might slip in.
Normal men don't have to try this hard,the thought crept in unbidden.Normal men just... respond.
Eventually, she pulled back, breath shallow.
"It's okay," she said. "Sometimes—"
"It's not me," he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Just tired."
But it was him. And he knew it.
Fuck.The word echoed in his mind as the reality settled over him. He was trapped. If he let himself feel, the trauma came flooding back. If he didn't let himself feel, nothing worked at all.
He dressed in silence. Left without speaking. He didn't even feel shame this time.
Just the cold confirmation of what he already suspected.
He was broken in more ways than he'd thought. And all the willpower in the world couldn't fix him.
Symond stumbled out of the brothel with the same empty feeling as before, drifted through the streets, past the vendors hawking the same useless trinkets and watered-down tonics. The gamblers cursing their luck sounded like a broken record, the same old tune of loss and misery. Even the tavern on the corner throbbed with more laughter, more noise, more life than he could stand. Every sound chipped away at him, echoing hollow and raw, as if the world lived just to mock him. He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his head down, determined not to let the voices get under his skin. Things would be fine. He kept saying that, repeating it like a damned mantra as he pushed forward into the more rundown part of the city.
He found himself at Brewski’s Bar, the dingy taproom where Hive members sometimes lingered if they needed a stiff drink or a place to punch things out. It was exactly as uninviting as he remembered, smelling like old ale and broken dreams. The floor was sticky, the walls stained with years of neglect, and the tables had seen better days—decades ago. But that was just fine by him. He liked it well enough.
The place was empty at this time of day, leaving him alone with the sound of tinkling glasses. The one-eyed man behind the bar worked without looking up, a permanent scowl etched under his wild gray eyebrows. He was a solid wall of meat and bad attitude, and Symond respected that.
“What’ll it be?” the old man barked, not bothering to glance up from his tankards.
“Something strong.”
“Everything here is.”
Symond slapped a few coins down and took the first bottle he saw: dark, unlabeled, promising oblivion. He drank like he worked—relentless, punishing—letting each swallow sear its way down until the warmth settled into a dull ache, then faded into numbness and then into the Institute grounds.
Symond hunched his shoulders against the afternoon heat, clutching his latest failure of an enchantment: a dagger with a warped blade and no bite. It was the same as its maker. He could hear Thorn's voice, quiet and cutting, telling him that, no matter how far he ran, he couldn't run from what was inside him.
He tried to shut it out by forcing the dagger through the air again and again, each thrust driving him deeper into exhaustion.
“Pathetic,” came a voice from behind him.
Symond spun around. Gerard towered over him, arms crossed, mouth twisted in amusement.
“Still playing with toys?”
Symond tightened his grip on the dagger. “It’s not—”
“Go ahead,” Gerard interrupted, smooth and taunting. “Show me your best.”
Symond lunged, the motion reckless. Gerard sidestepped easily, grabbing Symond by the wrist and twisting until the dagger clattered to the ground. Symond bit back a cry as pain shot through his arm.
