Ryan Hastings was a man hunted—not just by Damien Cross, but by his guilt and paranoia. The shadows in his rambling apartment emerged larger these days, whispering Damien's name at every corner.
His eyes darted towards the clock every few seconds, it had been days since he'd last heard from Damien.
And for those days, he'd been living on the edge, waiting for the inevitable. The silence was worse than an outright attack. It meant Damien was planning, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And that was far more terrifying than any impulsive act of violence.
Ryan sat in his dimly lit house, a half-empty whiskey bottle on the table, glasses piled up in the sink, untouched food sat at the counter—he was falling apart in plain sight, but he didn't care. Each sip of alcohol was an attempt to quiet the dread, but it only intensified it.
