Chapter 66
Elijah sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together in a death grip.
The dim glow of his bedside lamp flickered against the walls, casting long, restless shadows that twisted and danced like specters whispering his darkest thoughts.
His muscles ached—a dull, gnawing soreness that echoed the brutal fight he had barely walked away from.
But that wasn't the weight pressing down on his chest.
He had killed someone.
The memory replayed in his mind like a scratched record, skipping, looping, refusing to fade.
The man's eyes, his breath hitching in that final moment.
The way his body slumped, lifeless.
The sickening warmth of blood staining his hands.
The silence that followed.
At the time, it had been pure instinct.
His heart hammering, his body moving, every action fueled by the desperate will to survive.
But now, alone in the confines of his dimly lit room, reality had settled in like an uninvited guest refusing to leave.
