The kid's lips trembled, he looked lifeless, blood dripped from his mouth, and his hands clutched his side as he lay half-curled on the cold floor. His breathing pattern reduced by the second, his head spun in circles like he had been hit by a truck, but one would agree that was true with how King handled him.
King stood over him, one hand still clenched from the punch he'd just delivered. The boy had taken a beating, a beating of his lifetime, he was bruised, winded, and scared out of his skin, his lips vibrated. But King's patience was wearing thin, he needed answers from the boy, not some theatrics, if the boy wanted care and empathy—King knew a hospital that was close by, or should be.
"I'll ask again," he said, voice calm but ice-cold, King hated being delayed.
"Who sent you?"
The kid's eyes darted up, pleading, unsure of what would become of him.
"I told you already… I didn't know at first… but when he briefed the others, he slipped. It was… it was someone named Ryan."
