Hospital ?

I dragged a hand down my face, still scowling as the beeping from the monitoring device slowed to a dull, annoying rhythm. The damn thing always did this. Like I needed a machine to tell me when I was pissed off.

I leaned back, exhaling through gritted teeth. My head still buzzed, but not just from that garbage game. No, that was just the cherry on top.

What really made my blood boil—the thing that truly made me sick—was people.

The types of people I couldn't stand.

The ones who make promises but never back them up.

The ones who act so sure of their words, so full of conviction, yet deep down, they know they're lying.

The ones who run their filthy mouths, spouting garbage like it's wisdom, when they don't even have two fucking brain cells to rub together.

It's disgusting. Fucking disgusting.

And the worst part?

They're allowed to do it.

These low-brained morons, these absolute wastes of space, are somehow permitted to form opinions, to spread them like a disease. As if their lack of intelligence isn't already a problem, no—they have the entitlement to act like their idiotic thoughts actually matter.

It makes me want to rip my goddamn hair out.

But if there's one thing—one fucking thing—I hate the most, it's the people who give power to the ones who don't deserve it.

The ones who raise up the weak, the spineless, the pathetic.

The ones who should be crushed under the weight of their own insignificance, but instead, they get handed a crown like they earned it.

Like that bastard Damien Elford.

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

The fact that I shared a name with that miserable excuse of a man was nauseating.

A perfect example of a simp. A textbook case of a man who gave everything for a woman, thinking that somehow, that pathetic display of devotion would mean something.

I exhaled sharply, my fingers pressing into my temples as my patience for the entire fucking world reached its breaking point.

Men like Damien Elford—spineless, desperate little worms—they were the reason everything was so goddamn broken.

These were the types of guys who'd throw their dignity into the fire just for a woman's approval. Who'd kneel, grovel, offer their entire existence just to get a few crumbs of affection.

And what did that do?

It created monsters.

A group of women—those bitches—the ones who had nothing to offer but their bodies, suddenly thought they ruled the world.

As if the mere existence of a vagina was some kind of goddamn divine blessing. As if it was a currency that could buy power, influence, control.

And why?

Because of men like Damien.

Men who handed them the throne without question, who made them believe they were worth something more than what they actually were.

Fucking disgusting.

It made my stomach turn.

The way they walked around, heads held high, looking down on the very men who put them there. Acting as if they were goddesses, as if they weren't just another sack of flesh that got lucky because enough simps were willing to break themselves over their existence.

And people had the audacity to wonder why things were so fucked up.

It was simple. Too many weak men. Too many idiots catering to the wrong people.

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair, barely suppressing the urge to chuck something else across the room.

"Mister Damien. What happened?"

A young nurse stepped in, eyes wide, her brows immediately furrowing as she took in the room. Her gaze darted from me—half-slumped in my hospital bed, looking like I'd lost a fistfight with my own sanity—to the console lying like roadkill on the floor.

Her expression darkened.

"…What is this? Did you do something again?!"

Her voice carried accusation and exasperation, like she already knew I was the problem. Like she was so fucking used to me causing trouble.

I rolled my eyes, stretching my arms behind my head.

"Relax. I just threw a piece of garbage where it belongs."

I jerked my chin toward the console lying on the ground.

She followed my gaze, then let out a sharp sigh. "You're unbelievable."

"Tell that to Eric."

Her eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"The bastard who tricked me into playing a goddamn nightmare."

I exhaled, glancing toward the ceiling. This day couldn't get any worse.

I really couldn't help but scoff, running a hand through my hair, my head still throbbing from the absolute bullshit this day had dumped on me. The nurse was still standing there, arms crossed, waiting for an answer she was never gonna get.

And yet, this was the perfect example.

Look at her. Busting her ass, attending to her duties, working toward whatever dream she had.

There were countless women out there like her, grinding away in hospitals, in offices, in goddamn factories. Putting in the work, pulling late shifts, dealing with whiny patients like me, all while society conveniently ignored them.

And where were the guys?

Were they lining up to praise her efforts? Were they in her DMs, simping over her dedication, her discipline, her struggle?

No.

Because no one gave a shit about women who actually tried.

The ones who put in effort? They were invisible. Forgotten. Passed over.

Why?

Because their value didn't come from shaking their asses on a screen.

Take this nurse, for example. She was not perfect.

She had a small scar near her buttocks—probably from an accident, or surgery, or something she didn't even talk about.

She had freckles she desperately tried to hide under layers of makeup, like she was ashamed of them. Like it was some kind of flaw she had to erase just to be seen.

And yet—here she was.

Still working. Still pushing forward. Still trying.

And for what? Minimum wage.

Meanwhile, some random bitch online, some talentless, brainless, plastic-faced whore, could post a single selfie, rake in ten times her salary, and have an army of simps at her feet.

Because that's how fucked up things had gotten.

Because of those weak, spineless bastards who threw their money, their dignity, their goddamn self-worth at women who never lifted a fucking finger.

Who built this world where nothing matters except how well you can spread your legs?

Men like Damien Elford.

Men who let this happen.

"Fucked up, shit."

The nurse shot me a sharp look, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Mister Damien, please don't swear."

I snorted. "Why are you calling me Mister? I'm just a high-schooler. Am I not nearly the same age as your brother, Naria?"

Her expression barely changed, but I caught the slight twitch of her eyebrow—the smallest crack in her practiced professionalism.

She cleared her throat. "Ahem… Mister Damien, we have talked about this before, didn't we? Please keep the formalities."

Formalities.

I almost laughed.

As if any of this was formal.

Me, stuck in a hospital bed like some terminally ill prince, her standing there trying to keep me in check like a handler for a wild dog.

We both knew the real reason she kept up the polite act. It wasn't out of respect. It wasn't out of professionalism.

It was distance.

The kind people put between themselves and something broken.

"Anyway, I will start your gradual check-up. Please, hold on tight."

"Yeah….yeah….do whatever you fucking want…"