off shift jack abbot - collage aesthetic
The weight groans under his grip, veins standing out in his forearms, sweat sliding slow down his back and disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. Every lift pulls tight across scar and muscle, controlled, deliberate, breath rough in the quiet. Reps. Breath. Control. Pain he chooses.
After, his apartment glows dim and warm; a pan hisses, knife tapping fast and precise, the police scanner whispering static and distant chaos. He doesn’t sit to eat. He never sits. Sleep won’t take him, too riddled with flashes of the past, so he drives through dead streets, windows down, cold air biting his skin. Dawn finds him wired and restless, a man built for emergencies, never for rest.

















