Vic's POV:
He sat in the center of his bedroom floor, surrounded by silence that screamed.
Curtains drawn. Lights off. No music. Just him and the buzzing in his ears, the weight in his chest, the hollow that used to be a heart now filled with static.
He used to count his trophies. Now he counted pills.
His fingers hovered over the bottle on the nightstand. Not to end it. Not yet. Just enough to numb. Enough to make it through another hour without tearing the skin off his own face.
The room smelled like sweat, stale alcohol, and something darker—something like rot.
Maybe it was him.
Maybe he was decaying from the inside out.
His phone lit up again.
MAYA SINCLAIR — the name he kept deleting and retyping into the search bar like some ritual.
No texts. No missed calls.
Just his own desperation playing tricks on him.
He laughed. The kind of laugh that sounded like a death rattle.
"I thought I was the goddamn king," he mumbled, talking to no one. "Thought I could fuck her up and she'd still come back."
He looked at his reflection in the window. Pale. Greasy. Unrecognizable.
"I had everything," he said louder. "Power. Girls. Status. Her."
His voice cracked.
"And I lost it all for what?" He slammed his fist into the floor. "For control?"
He started pacing. Fast. Jerky. Like his skin didn't fit right. His eyes twitched. His jaw clenched. There were scratch marks on his neck—nights where the noise inside got too loud and he needed to feel something sharper.
"I ruined her," he whispered. "I fucking—"
His knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, hands clawing at the carpet.
Silence.
Breathing.
Then—
"What the fuck is wrong with me?!"
He screamed until his throat burned, until his voice broke into fragments, until his body shook from the pressure of everything collapsing inside him.
The walls didn't answer.
Nothing ever did.
"Victor?"
His mother's voice was faint from outside the door.
"Don't," he growled.
"Please eat something—"
"I said don't!"
She didn't knock again.
Good.
He didn't want food. He didn't want sleep. He didn't want company. He didn't even want forgiveness anymore.
He wanted to bleed.
He wanted to suffer.
He crawled to the mirror—just a shard of what it used to be, wedged into the corner.
He stared at himself.
Eyes red. Skin pale. Lips cracked.
"Look at you," he whispered. "You were supposed to be invincible."
The mirror didn't lie.
He was sick.
Not flu sick.
Soul sick.
He touched the glass with trembling fingers. "She was right about me," he said, voice breaking. "I don't even know who I am anymore."
His eyes stung.
"I thought money would fix it. That being Delacroix meant something." His lip curled. "But it doesn't. It's just a name. Just a mask."
He smashed the mirror again.
His knuckles bled.
He didn't flinch.
He welcomed the sting.
Because it was real.
Unlike the lies he'd built his life on.
The fake apologies.
The rehearsed charm.
The hollow power that meant nothing now.
He grabbed his phone and recorded a voice note. Not to send. Just to say it.
"Maya," he said, voice low and broken. "I wanted to hurt you because I didn't want to lose you. I wanted to be the one in control… but I never was. You were always the one with the real power. And I—"
He stopped.
Tears slipped down his cheeks.
"I destroyed everything."
He ended the recording.
Didn't listen back.
Didn't save it.
He sat in the dark for hours. Rocking. Whispering things that didn't make sense. Names. Dates. Apologies.
At one point, he saw her.
Or maybe it was the drugs.
But she stood there.
In the corner.
Eyes hollow. Mouth bloodless.
"You disgust me," the illusion whispered.
He didn't look away.
"I know," he said softly.
"I hope you rot."
"I already am."
The vision vanished.
And the silence came back.
He lay flat on the floor, arms spread like a corpse, staring at the ceiling.
And he whispered something he hadn't said in years.
"God… if you're real…"
Silence.
"Kill me."
He meant it.
He wasn't asking for a second chance.
He was asking for punishment.
The kind no one else could give.
The door slammed open.
Vic didn't even flinch.
His father stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, tailored suit sharp as always. His eyes swept over the destruction—shattered mirror, red-streaked tile, drawers ripped from the dresser, the whole room reeking of sweat and liquor and something darker.
"Jesus Christ."
His voice wasn't shocked. Just cold.
He stepped in, slow, like the mess might infect him.
"You're a fucking embarrassment."
Vic stayed on the floor, back against the wall, eyes distant. "Yeah."
"You fucked up everything," his father snapped. "The Thompson deal is dead. Dead, Vic. After everything I did to secure it, you throw it away like a tantrum."
Vic laughed—dry, cracked. "I know."
"You know?" His father's voice rose. "That's all you have to say?"
He kicked one of the broken photo frames aside with polished shoes, disgust bleeding into his tone. "I warned you not to get emotional. Told you to stay focused. But no—you had to spiral, didn't you? Had to ruin your own name. My name."
Vic slowly dragged his gaze up. "You always said I was just like you."
His father froze. "Excuse me?"
"I believed you," Vic whispered. "I let myself become what you wanted. I stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Treated people like trash, like tools. I poisoned everything I touched just like you taught me."
"Don't put your failures on me."
Vic stood—swaying, shirt soaked in sweat and blood, face hollow.
"You don't get to stand there and act like I did this alone."
"You did," his father spat. "You fucked it all up. You broke every rule. You let your emotions control you like a goddamn child. You've become pathetic. Weak."
Vic didn't flinch. "I'm a monster."
Silence.
"I'm a monster," Vic said again, louder this time. "And you made me this way."
His father's expression darkened. "You need help."
"No," Vic snarled. "I needed a father. But you gave me lessons in power and taught me how to lie with a straight face. You taught me to crush people. Cheat. Manipulate. You sleep with girls my age and call it business. You made this—me."
"You ungrateful little—"
"Don't even start," Vic snapped. "You don't get to yell at me in my own grave. You don't get to act shocked when the fire you lit finally burns the whole fucking house down."
They stared at each other—mirror images twisted by time and ego and rot.
"You think I don't hate myself?" Vic whispered. "You think I don't know I lost everything? I drugged a woman, humiliated someone I—someone I can't even say her name anymore without choking. I ruined the only thing I ever loved."
His voice cracked.
"You taught me to win, but all I know how to do now is destroy."
The air between them was thick. Heavy.
And then his father said, "Clean yourself up. You look disgusting."
Vic's lips parted. No response. No breath.
His father turned to leave.
"You don't even let me be miserable alone," Vic whispered.
The door clicked shut.
And Vic stood there, surrounded by the chaos he created.
No comfort. No forgiveness. Just silence.
And the sound of his soul cracking beneath the weight of everything he became.