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Summary
It’s grotesque, this flavor of envy – not just of the man himself, but of his accident of proximity, his animal privilege to be the one within Viktor’s reach, provisional laurels crowning him man of the hour. That nameless fucker got to choke on Viktor’s praise, got to gorge on his unraveling in ways that Jayce only caught secondhand, while he rotted on the opposite side of the hallway, working his own mouth around those stolen syllables like a deranged ventriloquist. La chair est faible – flesh bartering what it cannot keep. Jayce’s proved weakest in the humiliating ways jealousy prefers: twitching, salivating, writhing in sheets that smelled of no one but himself.
(in which an unsolicited text teaches Jayce there are worse things than being alone with his thoughts)