ALEXANDER
I’ve been told once or twice that I spiral.
Zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye.
One moment, I’m perfectly fine—laughing, smiling. The next, I’ve got my hands around someone’s throat, watching the life drain out of their eyes.
There’s probably a name for whatever’s wrong with me, but I’ve got no interest in a diagnosis. I don’t need treatment. Until people stop being ignorant, I’m going to keep getting pissed. No little mood-stabilizing pill can stop that from happening.
But still, sometimes, I can feel it. I feel myself spiraling hard and falling far, making mountains out of molehills that even I struggle to climb.
And today? I’m feeling it.
My hands shake.
I can hardly see straight.
Three of my men fatally injured. Another three dead.
When Enzo had rung up my pho
