Aljun's POV
Aljun's knee jerked up and down.
He pressed his palm over it, but it started again as soon as he let go.
Damn it.
He had only wanted a better life than the one he had in New Jersey. That was all. A wall. Food. A place where he did not have to sleep with one eye open.
The island had given him that.
A roof. A job. Protection.
Then the job turned into a table, a blade, and meat he learned not to name.
He had been the butcher.
That was the truth of it.
He had cut what they brought him. He had weighed it. He had kept his face blank while hungry people lined up because everyone understood the rule without saying it. Eat, or starve. Work, or become someone else's ration.
He hated it.
He still did it.
Because the butcher had value. The butcher got fed. The butcher did not get dragged out at night.
Now he was here, trapped in a dead office building with a dying man, a child listening to torture, and Malcolm behind a closed door taking someone apart for answers.
