Jorge felt… weird.
It was hard to describe.
As though something had yanked him from the world.
The loud bangs, the clash of weapons, the intense pain ripping through his body, all of it was gone.
He felt as though he was drifting in darkness. Endless. Silent.
No worries.
No pain.
No pressure.
Just… peace.
And Jorge loved every bit of it.
Being born into the Sanguine clan was the dream of many. The respect it brought. The recognition. The glory. Everyone wanted it.
But to Jorge, it had been nothing but hell.
Honestly, he would've preferred to be born the son of a poor farmer, tucked away in some forgotten edge of the West.
People only saw the glamour. The riches. The status.
They didn't see the rot. The cruelty. The absolute horror of it all.
The Sanguine were filled with the coldest people in the dome. Their view on life was transactional, like choosing a weapon from a rack. If it served, it stayed. If not, it was discarded.
