Lost Control

{EDMONDO'S POV}

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I don’t recognize faces. Never have for the past six years, never will. It’s a curse, really. It makes things harder. People blend together for me. But you know what? I don’t need faces to read a room.

I’ve got other ways.

I can smell the tension in the air, feel it in the way people move. I hear things that most don’t even notice — the click of a shoe against the floor, the shift of someone’s weight, the breath they take before they speak.

I can see things that aren’t obvious, catch the flicker in their eyes, the slight shift in their posture, the way they hold themselves. It’s all I’ve got, but it works. I trained myself to for six fucking terrible years and it's become a weapon.

And when we walk into Bruce’s place, I can feel it immediately.

It smells of smoke, too much cologne, and something sour — like desperation. The kind of scent a man gets when he’s drowning in his own lies. I don’t need to see Bruce’s face to know who he is. The air is thick with his