It stung more than it should have. But Jeremiah was picking away at wounds that were never really sealed up in the first place. Not enough. Nothing he did was ever enough.
He was worthless.
He had tried to take matters into his own hands, and fell short. Just like what had happened in New York. None of what he tried mattered in the end, and all there was to see were his failures. Only there was nothing he could do to save face here.
He had no purpose.Why did he keep on fighting? Was there even still a point for him to pursue this? He didn't know any of these answers. He wish he did, but he didn't. The fact was he had no personal stake in this. He had always had his sense of duty, as well as a need for survival.
In the end, he was just a pisspoor excuse of a detective, and of a man. Jeremiah had also changed his mind about training him, it seemed, but he couldn't blame him. The older man likely felt he was a lost cause at this point. Or in the very least, not worth his time.
He could almost hear his father laughing at him in the background somewhere. Oh, he would have gotten a kick out of this, to see someone agreeing in such a manner.
Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath. Something within him was crumbling. He did what he could to not let any of it show outwardly. He couldn't let any more of his weakness show. There were subtle cracks in his armor, in his emotionless facade. Ones that had started to form after the ball, and were now steadily growing. Jeremiah was a detective, and held himself in a similar way. Chances were he saw those points of vulnerability all too easily.
"I have wasted enough of your time, sir..." he finally said, softly.
