Charles' POV
The first thing I felt was the sting.
My hand. My foot. My chest.
Everything hurt — but in a way that told me I was still here. Still breathing.
The morning light crept through the curtains, pale and soft, touching everything it shouldn't. It made the dried blood on the floor shimmer faintly, like it was trying to make beauty out of the mess I'd made.
I blinked against the light, my eyes heavy, my throat dry.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal — Mother's doing, probably.
Someone had cleaned most of it while I slept.
I turned my head slightly. The shattered mirror was gone.
Only a faint smear on the wall where it used to hang.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, my mind empty.
Then it all came rushing back — the call, the words, the glass, the blood.
Louis.
I pressed my palm against my forehead.
"Why did I do that?" I whispered. "Why did I let him get to me again?"
A quiet knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
