Chris stumbled into the packhouse, his movements sluggish, his mind clouded. His steps echoed softly against the wooden floor as he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. The taste of whisky still lingered on his tongue—a bitter reminder of the stupid mistake he'd just made. Damien was seated at the long table in his office, hunched over a map of the territory.
Chris hesitated for a moment at the doorway, but the guilt gnawing at his insides pushed him forward.
"Damien," Chris croaked, his voice rough from the alcohol.
Damien glanced up, immediately noticing the uneven sway in Chris's stance and the glazed look in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow but remained calm. "Chris? What's going on? You look like hell."
Chris exhaled shakily and sank into the chair opposite Damien, running his hands over his face. He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, but it was too late for that now. "I messed up," he muttered, avoiding Damien's gaze. "Big time."
