The party's over, everyone has gone home. Maybe he's spent too much time in the company of dead people; their habits rubbing off on him. This shit used to mean something. Now, it's all just noise. Did he even recognize any of the fools in his house, before they left? He was a stranger, in his own penthouse, and now, he was alone.
Stop picking at it. It'll get infected.
He's thinking about all those hands on him, all those years ago, digits splayed across his chest, a demand, a pull, stop, before you go too far. He saw the way they looked at him. They thought he'd made a mistake, thought him brash, impulsive. His only regret was he didn't finish the job, and the way his friends, the ones who are all dead, wouldn't look at him.
And you're just going to sit there, picking at old wounds? Aren't you a man? Get out there, and do something about it.
Feverishly, he bursts into his bedroom, oh shit, maybe the party wasn't over, maybe everyone hadn't gone home. The room was smokey, dark, gentle after-party chatter, "what the fuck is going on in here?" He barks out, fuck, who cares. He's at the dresser, chucking clothes around, and moving boxes.
The atmosphere shifts when he pulls out the crossbow.
