Damien exhaled sharply as he stepped into his room, stripping off his formal attire with little care. The moment the fabric left his skin, he scowled.
Disgusting.
The weight—the sheer mass of this bloated, useless body—was unbearable. He could feel it in every movement, in every breath, in the way his joints protested from years of neglect.
150 kilograms.
He had known the number. He had seen it in the mirror. But actually feeling it? Being trapped inside it? It was something else entirely.
He felt slow, suffocated under layers of fat that didn't belong to him. His stomach pressed uncomfortably against the waistband of his pants. His arms, once meant to be weapons, felt like they were covered in dead weight. His breath was heavier than it should have been, and no matter how much he adjusted his posture, he couldn't shake the awareness of it.
Damien Elford—the original one—had been a fucking disgrace.
A morbidly obese, drug-riddled coward who had done nothing to fix himself.
