Even tied up, the kid's eyes were enough to make me question everything.
It wasn't the anger alone. I had seen anger before. I had lived in it. This was something sharper. Focused. Personal. It didn't flicker or fade. It stayed locked on me like it had somewhere to be.
And I had him sitting there in bandages.
Bandages.
I glanced down at my hands for a second, at the dried blood along my knuckles and the fresh wrap around his arm. It felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain. Like I had picked a side and then switched halfway through.
Part of me kept saying I should've just ended it. Put a bullet in his head when I had the chance. Clean. Simple. Done.
That was the rule now, wasn't it?
Do what you need to survive.
No hesitation.
No second chances.
But when I looked at him—really looked at him—I couldn't do it. He wasn't some faceless threat. He was a kid with dirt on his face, dried tears stuck in the corners of his eyes, and a jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.
