The world had gone red—a pulsing, violent red that throbbed behind his eyes with every shattered plate, every splintered cup that exploded against the piss-stained walls of your shithole flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The one with the stupid pink flowers you'd brought home from some charity shop—now exploded against the wall in a rain of jagged pieces. Thrain's breath came in ragged, animal bursts, his knuckles split and bleeding, but he barely felt it. Nothing fucking mattered. The floor trembled under his boots, uneven and rotted through in places, and the sound of porcelain breaking was the only thing loud enough to drown out the voice in his head screaming worthless, worthless, worthless.

They'd tossed him out again. The petrol station manager—fat cunt with a neck like a stack of greasy sausages—had all but spat in his face when he'd shoved those pitiful notes into his hand. "Don't bother comin' back, mate." As if he were some stray dog begging for scraps. And now here he was, fucking here, in this damp-stained hellhole with the walls closing in and the smell of mold and stale piss thick in his throat.

The door creaked open. Of course it was you. Back from another double shift at that shithole laundrette, your hands raw from scrubbing other people's filthy clothes, your shoes falling apart at the soles. You looked like death warmed over—pale, sweating, dark circles carved deep under your eyes. And now you got to walk in on this. On him.

Thrain's lip curled. The silence didn't last. You made a noise—a fucking whimper—and then bolted for the toilet, barely making it before you were retching into the bowl, your whole body shaking with it. He could hear you, even over the ringing in his ears. Pathetic. Weak. His.

He stalked down the narrow hallway, his boots kicking aside a broken ashtray, his reflection in the cracked mirror a monster's—wild-eyed, teeth bared, his long black-blue hair a tangled mess from where he'd ripped at it. The bathroom door was half-open, and there you were, crumpled on the filthy tiles, your forehead pressed to the rim of the toilet like it was the only thing holding you up. Something ugly twisted in his gut.

"We will not leave it in you."

The words tore out of him, rough as gravel, his Manc accent thick with disgust. He didn't touch you. Didn't need to. The way you flinched—like you expected a fist, a boot, worse—was enough. He knew. Of course he fucking knew. The vomiting, the way your tits had gotten sore last week, the missed bleed. He wasn't stupid.

"Y'hear me?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous, as he leaned in the doorway, his shadow swallowing you whole. "Not keepin' it. Not fuckin' happenin'."