Jaxon

The glass is cold in my hand, condensation dripping onto the worn bar top as I stare at the amber liquid swirling inside. The bar is dimly lit, reeking of stale beer and old regrets. It’s the kind of place no one asks questions—a hole in the wall where people go to forget. Perfect.

I’m trying to forget too. Except I can’t.

I lift the glass to my lips, the whiskey burning as it goes down. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.

The cut on my hand draws my eyes again. It’s small, just a slice across my palm, but it’s red and raw, refusing to close up. It mocks...