Coffee spilled over his fingers and dripped onto the floor.
Victor’s smile remained, but only at the mouth.
I picked up the medical chart and read the injury summary again.
The report did not say thirty-one hammer strikes.
It said thirty-one fractures caused by repeated blunt-force trauma.
But the pattern told its own story.
This was not one panicked blow.
It was not an intruder swinging once to escape.
It was control turned into punishment.
“A robber hits once or twice and runs,” I said. “Thirty-one times isn’t panic.”
I looked directly at Victor.
“That’s hate.”
His smile faded by one degree.
For one second, I wanted to cross the hall and put him through the glass.
The impulse came clean and fast.
I could feel my shoulders tighten and my right hand close.
Then I looked through the doorway at Tessa.
Victor expected violence from me.
