Stinging sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked rapidly, trying to stay calm, his back pressed against the uneven concrete of the tiny cell. His knuckles were white; his thin fingers wrapped desperately around the chair leg. Ready to strike. He fought back a wave of regret, and a momentary vertigo at the sudden realization that he was at the precipice if madness. The chair had been the sole comfort afforded to him in the bare cell during months of imprisonment. Torture. He had wept when he shattered it.

But it had given him a weapon. Like any good friend.