As Stryker sat beneath the cold downpour of the shower nozzle, fully clothed, he counted the pale blue tiles that lined the walls. It was all he could do to stop himself from screaming.

It was all he could do to stop himself from sprinting down to the kitchen sink and ransacking the cupboard beneath until he found the cheap bottle of brandy that he had been given as a gift a few months back. He had already tossed a lot of the temptation.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, his head slamming backwards. It hit the tiles with enough force to knock himself sick. His head— already swimming—exploded in pain...