I was slumped on a cold, unforgiving bench, inside the transit vehicle, fighting the constant urge to vomit. My muscles were in revolt, not just tired. The ringing in my ears wasn't just loud; it was a high-pitched, mocking whine that blocked out everything real. My head felt like a bruised melon, thrumming with a headache that felt capable of splitting my skull.
I tried to breath but my lungs burned. Every cell in my body felt violated, scraped clean. The swamp hadn't just drained my strength; it had stolen my ability to feel anything but this raw, awful emptiness. JD Blaxskn sat across from me, motionless and immaculate. He didn't look at me, but I felt his scrutiny, cold and clinical. No water, no check on my injuries, no human acknowledgment. His silence was another layer of suffoca
