TWO WEEKS LATER
It had been two weeks since he'd escaped being killed, but he still hadn't found himself. Once again it was a bright morning — one that began with a nice breakfast made by Michael himself.
If only he wasn't depressed. If only he wasn't angry at everything: Nicole, Mateo, Ricardo, and that bitch parading around as Daniel Lancaster. If only Draven were still with him, or Xylander hadn't been dragged into a huge scandal, and Alexander hadn't gone—maybe then he would have enjoyed the breakfast and Michael's steady care. But none of that was the case.
Everything tasted sour now. He couldn't smile; it worsened every day. At night his dreams grew more vivid, dragging him deeper into a burning, malicious intent.
He wanted to leave. He wanted to burn them all to the ground, butcher them piece by piece. Prison didn't matter as long as he could satisfy the craving in his heart.
