They came armed with cameras, microphones—men and women alike—rushing toward me like a pack of bloodthirsty bats.
Panic seized me. My face turned deathly pale, and my broken body couldn’t even flinch.
"Mr. Evans, rumors say you prefer men and deliberately sought out muscular partners, landing yourself in the hospital. Would you say this is karma? How do you feel about it?"
"With such promiscuity, did you use your ‘skills’ in bed to secure your position as a software developer?"
"Mr. Evans, you can’t even move now—have you been left completely crippled? Do you have unirary incontinence?"
As they spoke, one of the reporters suddenly reached out and yanked away the thin blanket covering me.
I wasn’t wearing anything—my injuries made it impossible.
Humiliation crashed over me like a tidal wave. My chest tightened. My breath came in painful gasps.
"Oh god, how disgusting! So many wounds!"
"Tsk tsk, his limbs are completely deformed. Pretty face, but a total freak. Quick, take as many pictures as you can—pure gold for the headlines!"
Their sneers and contempt cut into me like knives, stabbing straight into my chest.
I wanted them to leave. But my throat felt clogged—thick with the taste of blood.