Chapter 82: The Mask of the Dragon Pursuer

The sterile white walls of the private hospital room felt like a tomb. Ivan Davidson stood over his son’s bed, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were bone-white. Quinton was conscious, but his eyes were vacant, staring at a ceiling he couldn't see. The life, the arrogance, the fire that had defined him was gone, replaced by a hollow shell of a man who would never walk, never hold a pen, never command a room again. The doctors had been clinical: total and irreversible nerve...