Chapter 54: Ashes and Anesthesia
You ever try chopping down a tree that doesn’t want to die?
It’s a spiritual experience. A spiritual fuck you. Every swing is like trying to take a bite out of a brick wall while it moans like an old lover in protest. I wasn’t even sure if the trees here were made of wood.
They bled like memories and creaked like they knew your mother. Still—I kept swinging, axe in hand, shirt discarded on the floor next to me, hair soaked with sweat and pheromonal victory.
With use of sheer force, in just a few minutes, the first tree was already leaning like it had too many shots and was about to confess something terrible at a dinner party.
And me? I wasn’t a lumberjack. I was a man with a grudge and an axe, which in Tower math, made me a prophet. Because this island wasn’t just fake—it was wrong. Every hammock was just a bit too plush, every drink and layer of indulgence too conveniently placed.
This floor—Sloth—wasn’t paradise.
It was anesthesia.
And the trees were its veins.
I took another swing. THWACK. Sap—or was it ink?—splashed up my arm. I wiped it across my jaw like warpaint. Very dramatic. Very sexy. Possibly insane.
"Excuse me—!"
I paused mid-swing then turned, slowly.
A man was approaching through the clearing in a robe so violently floral it deserved its own crime scene. A noble, clearly. Hair coiffed. Eyes heavy-lidded. He looked like he’d spent the last six hours being lightly oiled by two twin masseuses and now had the gall to be annoyed by the sound of me dismantling his forest.