Granted, there was some consolation in seeing the same kind of shit go down almost every hour--somebody breaking into a screaming fit, somebody getting sucker punched, somebody duking it out with the staff, the last of which was Reid’s personal favorite. It all kind of made him feel less like an island. Or however that saying went.

But it didn’t really change anything. Still here, still magically castrated until sundown, still just part of some asshat’s prime time amusement.

He’d gotten a little dizzy on the way to the bathroom, and the water he’d splashed on his face had felt like a mask of ice against his skin. With night so close, he just wasn’t in the mood to put up with the staff who just so happened to multiply like rabbits in heat. And he definitely didn’t feel like talking to another drone in smiley face grey. So he laid back on a couch, foot rapping against the armrest like a hummingbird’s wing, and watched staff members scurry around on the second floor. Damn it, they thought they had it all figured out, that they had him in line like a good little lunatic, didn’t they? Well, fuck them.

At least he wasn’t so down and out he was willing to go bake cakes for kicks.