Sullivan parked his car as he drove into the familiar garage of his house. With the recent happenings and newly made decision regarding Annabelle, he knew there was no going back. He had taken the path he once condemned even if the condemnation did not come from his lack of appetite for it but more of the dull ache that compounded his life.
After her.
After her, everything went bleak. Even his avid interest in the sport of violence. The one he took pleasure in next to orgasms from a loved one. Now Anabelle appeared. And the moment he laid eyes on her—Sullivan strolled past the door that led to the house, to one that seemed clasped and non-existence—the first moment he killed for her, something in him snapped, freeing him from the bonds that held him to melancholy.
He knew from then that he was fucked anyways. Killing for a lady he came face to face with barely twenty minutes ago. And why?
