It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't theory. It was truth, clear and immediate, clawing at his insides like a beast made of corrosion.
His knees buckled as a fresh wave of agony tore through him, radiating from his spine and out into every limb. The muscles in his arms spasmed violently, fingers curling without his command.
His vision blurred, the edges of his sight swallowed in red and gray, and a horrible pressure began to build behind his eyes, as if something inside was trying to claw its way out.
A scream tore from his throat, raw, guttural and unrestrained.
It echoed through the poisoned air, ragged and human, filled with the suffering of someone balanced between death and defiance. He fell forward, catching himself just before his face hit the stone, elbows shaking under the weight of his own failing strength.
The poison had found its rhythm now. It wasn't merely attacking, it was unraveling him.
