And he walked out. No one stopped him. Because sometimes a baby is the strongest thing in the room—not in spite of the softness, but because of it.
John didn’t cry at the funeral. He didn’t cry at the wake. He went back to his empty apartment, sat on the floor, and finally let it out—great, heaving sobs that shook the walls. The next morning, he walked into the crew’s headquarters, laid his brass knuckles on the table, and said, “I’m out.” john baby
John hated it. He tried everything: scowling harder, breaking more things, even getting a tattoo across his knuckles that read “BEAST.” But when a man twice his size called him “John Baby” in a bar, John just sighed and bought him a drink. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to be a monster. He wanted to be someone who could still cry in his mother’s kitchen. And he walked out
The boss laughed. “You can’t be out, John Baby.” John didn’t cry at the funeral