The first thing to break was the beautiful china cup he'd been holding.
Next was the (now useless) telephone on the desk beside him; ripped from it's wires, the handset torn from the rest of the phone and twisted into unrecognisable shapes by slender, trembling hands.
Somewhere along the line, the sofa was knocked over, completely gutted and bleeding its stuffing. The curtains were torn down. The plate of pastries vanished, presumably smashed into the carpet - it was impossible to tell, as the lamps and incense burners had been doused or shattered.
The shop reeked of smoke and incense and anger and fear. The animals hid as far away from him as possible, trying to avoid catching the man's attention.
Nothing caught his attention. That was perhaps the problem, and why the destruction continued.
When D came back to himself, there was nothing untouched in the shop's main room. Nothing but the animals, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.
The Count covered his face with his hands for a moment, the nails dark and deadly against his too-pale face. The detective's blood had soaked into his sleeve as he bandaged his wounds. His cheongsam still smelled of him faintly, of his blood and sweat and pain from when he'd been leaning on him.
A single tear had dried on his face. Perhaps that was more impressive than the destruction he had wrought.