A Proposition For Lucas

Lucas lay in his dimly lit bedroom, his body wrapped in bandages, staring at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes.

His entire body throbbed, and he was in excruciating pain. He'd felt the same misery and pain every day since the fight.

However, the anguish was sometimes temporary. Coming and departing, Lucas wasn't sure whether he liked it or not.

He'd be well and strong in the mornings, even forcing Vera to take him outside to do some exercises, but he'd feel dead a few minutes or hours later.

His muscles wouldn't operate properly, his joints would be stiff, and Lucas would revert to his old, frail self—something he didn’t like at all.

Lucas desired to be powerful. He had a lot to do, and lying in bed all day wouldn't help. Not at all.

He attempted to move for the umpteenth time, but it only made his entire chest hurt for a split second before he fell limp again. It took numerous attempts and a lot of suffering for him to be able to sit up on the edge of the bed.

Just as he did so,
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