72. Useless
Zander
I hated every second of it.
Before the bullet, I had been the man people stepped aside for. The club’s Enforcer. Strong enough to end a fight with one clean hit. Fast enough on a bike that no one could catch me. Independent enough that I never needed anyone to hold me up. Dangerous enough that the Jackals had learned to fear the sound of my engine. That version of me felt like a ghost now, something that used to live in this body and had been replaced by a weaker, slower, broken thing.
Mara helped me stand every morning. She steadied me when I took the short walk to the bathroom. She adjusted the pillows so I could sit without the wound pulling. She handed me the medication that dulled the constant ache in my chest and side. I couldn’t swing a leg over my motorcycle.
