Arm stopped his pacing. The sight of Mild—the brilliant, independent Director of Medicine—broken and crying in his own bed, finally pierced through the fog of his rage. He looked at the handcuffs, then at the red marks forming on Mild's wrist, and for the first time, a flicker of horror crossed his face.
The master suite, once a place of shared whispers and soft light, had become a theater of psychological warfare. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic clicking of the radiator and the soft, hitching breaths of Mild's weeping.
Arm approached the bed, his movements no longer violent but slow, almost hesitant. He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached out to brush a stray tear from Mild's cheek. Mild flinched away from the touch, the metal of the handcuffs clinking sharply against the iron headboard.
