The silence of the house was absolute, broken only by the hitching of Bill’s breath. Every movement was a chore; his ribs were a roadmap of agony, and his side screamed in protest with every shift of his weight.
He gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he hauled himself upward, using the jagged edge of his mahogany desk for support.
For a fleeting second, he stood on unsteady legs—but the agony in his ribs flared, forcing a choked gasp from his throat. His knees buckled.
He collapsed back to the floor, reduced to crawling on his hands and knees.
Bereft of his shoes from the beating, he had no protection against the wreckage. Sharp shards of monitor glass and the razor-edged scraps of torn documents bit into his skin with every desperate movement—a stinging, constant reminder
