He had lost his mother, his name, his family, his home, his very self, and had spent every day of it in fear, hiding in the wreckage of a life he had detonated with his own hands.

There was no punishment Daniel could deliver that Andrew had not already delivered to himself a thousandfold.

To strike him would not have added justice to the world; it would only have added one more blow to a man already beaten flat by his own choices, and it would have made Daniel, in that moment, into something smaller than he wanted to be.

The rage wanted its satisfaction.