Chapter 57
Cristiano
There was nothing else that could compete with sitting in an uncomfortable hospital gown that barely covered my ass to remind me of how utterly pathetic life could be. Honestly, I would rather be dodging bullets than sitting here under the harsh fluorescent lights while some German doctor with an unpronounceable name stared at my MRI scan like it was the freaking Mona Lisa painting.
“Mr. Cristiano,” Dr. Reinhardt finally said, his voice thick with a German accent but his words cold and professional. “The results are not encouraging.”
No s**t, doc. Tell me something I don’t already know.
Apparently, my Glioblastoma—a fancy word for “you’re screwed”—was in its final stage. Glioblastoma wasn't just any cancer; it was like the mafia boss of brain tumors. Rapid growth,
