𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐔𝐒 | 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙇𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙐𝙨 𝙄𝙄.

𝐕𝐈.

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𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐖 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 lost track of how many times Abby had brought the golf club down on Joel. It was a gruesome rhythm, each swing followed by the sickening thud of metal against flesh and bone. Joel, once strong and defiant, was now a crumpled heap on the floor, barely recognizable beneath the blood that smeared his face and pooled around him. His breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps, but somehow, miraculously, he was still alive.

Abby didn't slow down, her face a mask of cold rage. Each strike seemed to feed that fury, years of vengeance condensed into every brutal swing. The rest of the group stood nearby, watching in varying degrees of discomfort, horror, and grim acceptance. The room reeked of blood and sweat, the metallic tang of violence hanging in the air like a shroud.

Matthew stood off to the side, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He tried to maintain a neutral expression, but his stomach churned, and his mind raced with conflicting emotions. He had known this would be brutal, but seeing it unfold, watching Abby unleash her fury in such a visceral, primal way—it was something else entirely. He stayed silent, trying to push down the nausea rising in his throat, the brutality of the scene twisting his insides.

But the one who couldn't hold it in any longer was Corbyn.

Corbyn, standing near the back of the room, had been growing increasingly pale. His fingers twitched nervously at his sides, his eyes darting away from Joel's battered form as often as they could. The sound of the club hitting bone, the sight of the blood splattering across the floor, the raw, visceral stench—it was all too much.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"I need to get out of here," Corbyn muttered under his breath, his voice shaky, barely audible at first. But then he cleared his throat and spoke louder. "I—I can't stand this. I need some air." He took a step toward the door, his face contorted with discomfort.

The moment he spoke, the room's atmosphere shifted. Everyone's eyes turned to Corbyn, and the judgment came swiftly. "¡Tienes que estar bromeando!" Manny muttered in disbelief, his voice dripping with disdain. He shot Corbyn a sharp glare, shaking his head. "You've got to be joking!"Even without looking directly at him, Matthew could feel the tension rise. Corbyn's sudden plea for escape, for a reprieve, rubbed everyone the wrong way. This was vengeance, years of pain manifesting in this moment.

To them, Corbyn's reaction felt weak and cowardly. Nick stepped forward, frustration evident in his stance. His brows furrowed as he fixed Corbyn with a hard stare, his voice biting. "Don't forget the reason we came here, Rosenheim." Nick spat, his words laced with anger and impatience.

Corbyn scoffed bitterly, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "We?" he echoed, disbelief in his voice. "The only reason I tagged along in the first place was because Nora and Owen insisted I come." A few others, besides Abby— who was still relentlessly beating Joel— shifted their gazes to Owen, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression tight.

He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the looks. With a small sigh, Owen finally spoke up, his tone defensive but calm. "That's true," Owen admitted, shrugging slightly. "We couldn't just leave someone as, well, enlightened in explosives engineering as you behind." His words carried a thinly veiled condescension, his eyes narrowing just a bit as he added, "So, quit your bitching."

Corbyn's face twisted into a grimace, his jaw tightening in response. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead, he just let out a frustrated breath and turned away, clearly unwilling to argue further. His discomfort was written all over his face, and he didn't care to hide it anymore. The judgmental eyes of the others burned into him, but he refused to stay any longer in the room where violence and vengeance had become the only currency. Without another word, he walked to the other side of the room, his footsteps heavy with unease.