A deep breath shuddered through his lungs as he stared at his own reflection, eyes dipping down the planes of his own chest, along the trails of hair curling to his pubis and lower- lean hips and muscled thighs. His was a body that spoke of power, but when he glanced up to meet his own gaze he couldn't help but recoil. His eyes were shining a poisonous green, and he took another deep breath and closed his eyes. The fingers of his left hand were splayed wide against the rich dark gray granite of the vanity, which was still cool to the touch. His right hand gripped the only piece of medical equipment that hadn't left his possession since the 'accident' – a scalpel. The chill of the textured metal was like a balm for his racing heart, and as his pulse slowed down he opened his eyes to look at the thin pale lines that traced along the upper half of his thighs.

Never too deep, never too often. His mind repeated it every time he did this, like it was a religious mantra. They can't know. No one can know.One glance over at the door, then to the touch panel next to it, the word LOCKED illuminated in bright red. He stepped to the shower slowly and ran the pads of his left index and middle fingers up the gauges for water pressure and temperature, waiting for the hiss of hot water on stone before opening the glass door, scalpel still in hand.

He stepped under the spray of almost scalding water, allowing it to soothe his aching back, stiff from being hunched over a computer for 36 hours straight. His fingers loosened and rolled the small blade around lightly until they lined up perfectly against the ergonomic grips. Leaning his head back against the now warm wall, he pressed the flat of the blade lightly against the skin of his thigh, breathing deeply as his pulse slowed further, all anxiety fading away in the presence of routine. With a twitch of his wrist, the blade slit through the scar tissue and blood welled, beading along the path that he had made. He dropped his gaze to watch in fascination as the beads grew and then spilled, trailing scarlet paths down his leg as gravity took over.

He let out a shuddering breath and slipped back under the water, rinsing the remainder of the blood away once it had stopped welling freely, laying the scalpel on one of the shelved designed to hold extra soap. He quickly lathered and conditioned his hair, rubbed himself down with soap, ignoring the sting of it in the new wound, grabbed a towel. There was a small gauze pad and medical tape on the shelf next to the towels, and he methodically bandaged himself, not wanting to accidentally stain anything.

The towel went around his waist, and he pressed against the touch pad next to the door to open it, breathing in the clean scent of sandalwood that filled his personal room at the tower. I need to get away from here eventually he thought, a rueful smile playing across his features. He went to the dresser that had about a hundred different pieces of clothing in it, all in his size, none of them his, and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs before settling on a pair of black jogging shorts and a navy tee shirt.

The bed was already turned down and he crawled in, letting the exhaustion of too many hours awake seep into his brain, falling asleep as his head hit the pillow.