Droplets of crimson fell like macabre raindrops, staining the pristine white of the bathroom tiles.
Yves stood before him, his hand clenched into a fist that seemed to harbor both pain and defiance.
"What the hell are you trying to do?!" Tristan's voice sliced through the charged atmosphere, each word a lash of his mounting anger.
His grip closed around Yves' wrist with a vice-like hold, a mixture of concern and fury reflected in the fierce intensity of his gaze. The truth unfolded before him with brutal clarity— the Omega had crushed the perfume bottle in his own palm, the shards of glass exacting a price in blood.
A resolute silence met Tristan's question, Yves' gaze averted as if the man before him were a mere specter. The absence of response seemed to stoke the fires of Tristan's ire, the anger in his eyes smoldering like embers waiting to burst into a consuming blaze.
