ETHAN My hands won't stop shaking, not adrenaline but fatigue, the kind that settles into bone and stays there, low and constant, like something buried under the skin that refuses to die.I flex my fingers slowly, and the skin across my hands is split, swollen, and bruised. The dried blood cracks open and stings again, I don't even react.I can't work in a firm or anything that requires checking of identification. The dock shift has me working for eight hours, carrying steel crates that smell like salt and diesel.My shoulders feel like they want to fall off, and now I'm at the next job, as a bouncer my back pressed against the door of iron lung, the bass from the music pours out.That's the only thing keeping me awake, the music, I close my eyes for a second. “Hey don't sleep on the job, man.” My eyes open, slowly as I struggle not to punch him, but I can waste energy on men that don't matter.The line shifts, as Alphas shove past me, one after another , checking and testing if I w
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