Michael. Saw. Red.

He grabbed Davy by the neck and throttled him, swinging his unconscious body around like a rag doll. When Davy came to a few minutes later, Michael screamed and spat in his face.

"I hope you rot in hell for what you've done!"

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small switchblade, one he'd originally been planning to use on Peter. He grabbed Davy by the neck and held the blade up to the sensitive skin. Davy pawed at Michael's hands and his lips moved to form words that couldn't come out. His eyes were glassy.

Suddenly, Davy's eyes shifted to something behind Michael. The Texan glared at him, believing this was an effort to distract him, until he heard the voice.

A fragile, broken voice that spoke in nothing, but a faint whisper.

"Michael?"

Micky was awake.