Matt woke up with his cheek pressed against cold tile, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.
He didn't remember falling. Didn't remember the crash of his body against the bathroom sink. Just the rage. The shaking hands. The glass pipe slipping from his fingers.
The motel room stank of rot and stale smoke. The flickering neon outside painted the cracked ceiling in pulses of red. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed, swallowed by the endless groan of the city.
Matt rolled onto his back, groaning. His ribs ached. Old bruises blooming again. His hand fumbled for the bag that wasn't there. Gone. All of it.
He stared at the ceiling. Bishop's name floated there like a curse.
He hated how much of himself still wanted to believe the lie—that Bishop had once saved him. That maybe Bishop saw potential in him. But Matt knew better now. Bishop didn't save anyone. He used them. Hollowed them out and filled the cracks with dependency.
And Matt had swallowed every promise like poison.
He sat up slowly, reaching for the knife he kept under the mattress. The edge was dull, but it was familiar. Grounding.
Leon had called last night, his voice sharp, urgent. Something about a message. A threat.
Matt stood, body shaking, and reached for his jacket. He stared at himself in the cracked mirror. Pale. Sunken eyes. Tracks fading but not forgotten. He wasn't a survivor. Not yet.
But he could still be a fighter.
And Bishop had forgotten one thing:
He left Matt breathing.
That was his mistake.