“Thor, stop! We still need him talking!” V shouts, straining to grab his arm.
But Thor is unstoppable. He tears free from their grip and flips the metal chair with Holloway still strapped to it. The man crashes to the concrete floor with a sickening thud and a strangled scream.
“You don't get to speak to her!” Thor bellows, kicking the chair. “You don't get to look at her!” Another kick. “You don't get to breathe the same fucking air as her!”
Blood sprays across the plastic sheeting as Thor's boot connects with Holloway's ribs. The sound of bones cracking turns my stomach, but I can't look away. This isn't just violence. This is protection in its rawest form.
“Thor!” Ratchet grabs him from behind, locking his arms. “You're gonna kill him before we get what we need. Jesus fucking Christ, man.”
Thor struggles against Ratchet's grip, every muscle in his body coiled with rage. “He's dead anyway. Look at what he's done to her—look at her face!”
I realize I'm shaking, my hands clenched into fists so tight my nails are cutting into my palms. The detachment I felt moments ago has shattered, replaced by something hot and violent clawing at my chest.
“I'm fine,” I lie.
“No, you're not.” Thor finally stops fighting Ratchet's hold. “You're not fine and pretending you are doesn't help anyone.”
V rights the chair, hauling Holloway back into position. The man's breathing is even more labored now, wet rattles escape his throat with each exhale. His one good eye rolls back, consciousness flickering.
“Shit,” V mutters, slapping Holloway's cheek. “Come on, Vincent. Stay with us. We're just getting to the good part.”
Ratchet releases Thor slowly, keeping his hands raised like he's dealing with a wild animal. “We need locations. Names. How to reach Terrance directly.”
“Not giving you shit,” Vincent slurs, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. His head lolls forward, chin dropping to his chest. “Should've...killed me...quicker.”
“No, no, no,” V mutters, grabbing Vincent's face between his hands. “Eyes open, asshole.”
I watch, frozen in place, as Vincent's breathing becomes more erratic. His chest heaves with effort, each inhale a wet, gurgling sound that fills the basement. Something's wrong. Even I can see it, something fatal shifting inside him.
“He's crashing,” Ratchet barks, shoving V aside. He rushes to a black duffel bag in the corner, yanking it open and rifling through its contents. “Get his head back!”
Thor moves instantly, tilting Vincent's head to maintain an open airway. Vincent's eye flutters, consciousness slipping away as his skin takes on an ashen hue.
“Where is Terrance?” Thor demands. “Last chance, Vincent. Tell us and we’ll get you help.”
A bubble of blood pops between Vincent's lips as he tries to speak. I can barely make out his words, “Fuck...you...”
Ratchet returns with a syringe filled with clear liquid, tapping it once before jamming the needle directly into Vincent's chest. “He’s got minutes at best, even with adrenaline.” The shot makes Vincent's body jerk violently.
For a moment, I think it's working. Vincent's eye flies open, pupils blown wide from the adrenaline. His body convulses, spine arching against the restraints. Then something changes—the tension leaves his muscles all at once, like a marionette with cut strings. His head falls forward, chin hitting his chest with a dull finality.
“No, no, NO!” Ratchet slaps Vincent's face, but there's no response. He presses fingers against Vincent's neck, searching for a pulse that isn't there. “Fuck!”
Thor shoves Ratchet aside, grabbing Vincent by the hair and yanking his head back. “Wake up, you piece of shit!” He roars into Vincent's lifeless face. “WAKE UP!”
Vincent doesn't move. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth in a thin, final stream.
“He's gone.”
Thor explodes, flipping the metal table beside him. Tools clatter across the concrete floor, the sound deafening in the sudden silence. He grabs the chair with Vincent's body still strapped to it and hurls it against the wall with such force that one of the legs snaps clean off.
“FUCK!” The word tears from his throat. He whirls around, fist connecting with the cinder block wall. Again. Again.
I watch Thor destroy his knuckles, blood spattering the concrete with each impact. The sound echoes through the basement.
“Thor, stop. You're going to break your hand.”
He freezes mid-swing, fist hovering inches from the wall. Blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor, mixing with the other stains.
