جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 20

Sloane woke just before dawn, minutes ahead of the alarm's chirp. Her sleep had been shallow, her muscles weighed her down like lead, and the pain radiating from her shoulder pulsed with stubborn memory—her body hadn't forgotten. Nor would it forgive. But she didn't groan. Didn't move for a long time. She just lay there, counting. The clock. The tasks. The load they could cram into the next forty-eight hours. Recovery windows. Nutritional cycles. By the time Lennox woke, Sloane was already in the kitchen. Boxes, supplements, and training schedules were lined up with military precision. The tablet sat on the counter, her shoulder braced with offloading tape. Her left arm was useless, but her right moved with speed, control, and accuracy. Her expression was cold, calculated. Today, there was no patience. No leniency. Lennox entered barefoot—gray T-shirt, black pants. He looked groggy, but something in him had already shifted. As if something inside had begun to move. Sloan

Afternoon gradually took over the day. The lighting in the gym shifted: the pale glow of the overhead bulbs swallowed the last rays of sunlight, and echoes rolled gently above the floor. The air was warmer now, more charged, as if even the walls sensed that a different kind of energy pulsed between them. This wasn't correction. Not rehab. Not coordination. They came to strike now. Lennox stood at the edge of the boxing floor, in front of the bag. His hands were already wrapped in tight, even layers of black tape, the wrists perfectly finished, symmetrical. His movements were precise and calm—but in his eyes, a familiar old tension pulsed. Not fear. More like anticipation. He could finally use his power. Finally release it. But for the first time—not to break something apart. To build something out of himself. Marcus stood beside him. Today, he wore a different coaching face—less dry sarcasm, more active attention. He didn't aim to control, only to guide. Like som

The silence of the hotel room weighed oddly on Lennox. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting orange-tinted shadows across the floor, but the brightness brought no calm. The walls felt too sterile, the bed was made too tightly, and though he'd washed the dust of the journey off his body with a cool shower, the tension still stirred under his skin. Madrid was out there. The city of the tournament. The reason he'd been training, focusing, straining, staying silent for weeks—and now, finally, it was just a street away. And yet, for the first time, he had a moment to feel what he'd somehow managed to avoid until now: that everything he'd done had been leading somewhere. To something real. As he left the room, the cool air of the corridor seemed to exhale around him. His steps were silent, yet steady. His heartbeat thudded with a balanced, deep rhythm, like a command struck on a drumskin: the time has come. The elevator was already waiting below. He didn't look at hi

The lights of the ring still burned into Lennox Graves' retinas as he stepped off the canvas. His legs buckled slightly with the movement—not from exhaustion, but from releasing a tension he could no longer hold. There was no triumphant posture in him, no raised arms, no demand for applause. He simply walked off. Out from the ropes, away from the lights, back into the corridor. Into the silence. Into reality. There was no applause in the back halls of the stadium. No cheers, no cameras, no crowd. Just grayish walls, fluorescent ceiling lights, and the muted, dull squeak of rubber soles beneath his feet. Every sound was muffled, every movement heavier—because the world was no longer watching. Only the three of them remained. When they reached the assigned locker room, Lennox sat on the first bench he came across. He didn't speak. He didn't move. The tension slid off his shoulders slowly, like a cold towel. His heart still beat, but no longer demanded attention. His body tremble

Before the third match, the silence was different. Not tense, not electric— but deep and echoing, like the moment before the stage lights come on, when the actors are already behind the curtain, and they all know: this is no longer rehearsal. Lennox Graves sat on the bench in the locker room, suited up again, wearing new gloves, new wraps, fresh tape around his hands. There was no trace on his body of the two previous bouts—Sloane's expertise had done its work perfectly. His skin was clean, his muscles recharged, and in his eyes, for the first time, there was no fatigue or guardedness. There was something else. Something entirely new. Something even he didn't fully recognize. The walk to the ring felt longer this time. Or maybe Lennox only perceived it that way, as he walked the dark, neon-streaked hallway flanked by Sloane and Marcus. The floor barely squeaked underfoot, but the tapping of his shoes echoed like a drumbeat. To his right was Marcus—keeping a