Renard’s face grimaced violently, repeatedly. The gun fell with a metallic clatter to the floor. His eyes never left the two men writhing on the floor. All the same, he managed to give himself resounding smacks to his face, his cursed face. Hard as they were, he hardly flinched.

Izzy was saying something, probably half in Portuguese. Renard could not hear her. He liked to imagine it was that the gunshots had deafened his virgin ears. Deep down he knew he was just losing it, drifting away, like before.

A voice echoed from his past, “Look what you did, you little freak! Can’t you do anything right? It’s no wonder I can’t get a woman to stay more than a fortnight. Stop twitching, Renny. Stop twitching, you little sh…“

Renard’s eyes drifted to Izzy. She looked only vaguely familiar, despite nearly a year of admiring her from afar, dreaming of a time when he could be with her. Her mouth moved, but no sound came through. Renard turned and started to walk away, though he was already so far gone.