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Viktor looked at him. The look said he knew Chris was avoiding the dining hall. The look also said he wasn’t going to push it.
“The logs are on my desk,” Viktor said. “I’ll leave the study unlocked.”
He went inside. Chris stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand on the frame. The bond hummed. Sloane, awake, alive, afraid of things he was only beginning to understand.
He let go of the frame and walked toward Viktor’s study.
There was work to do.
Chapter 10 - Sloane
The heavy bag swung back, and she met it with a cross that cracked through the empty yard. The sun was still hiding. It was five-thirty in the morning. The compound was still sleeping.
She hit the bag again. Jab, jab, cross, hook. Reset. Her knuckles stung through the wraps, and she let them sting, let the impact travel through her wrists into her forearms, her shoulders, her spine. Her body was the only language she’d ever been fluent in. When her mind ran too hot to sort, she came here and hit until the thoughts fell into a shape she could carry.
The bruises on her throat had faded to a dull yellow. She could still feel them when she swallowed, a ghost-pressure that showed up at odd moments. Her body kept its own records regardless of what she told it to forget.
She circled the bag. Threw a front kick that sent it swinging wide on the chain. Followed with an elbow that caught the edge. Not clean. She reset, threw the combination again. Better.
She heard him before she saw him. Footsteps on the gravel path, steady, unhurried. She didn’t turn around. She threw another combination, four strikes, reset, and a fifth that she added because her body wanted it.
Chris came around the corner of the equipment shed in a grey T-shirt and running shoes. He stopped when he saw her.
She kept hitting.
He didn’t leave. The bond sat warm behind her ribs, registering his proximity without her permission.
She threw another round. Jab, jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Circled. Threw it again. Her breathing was sharp and controlled, the rhythm drilled into her from years of training alone before the compound woke up. Before anyone could watch.
He was watching silently, his hands behind his back.
She stepped back from the bag. Wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrapped hand. She stood in that exact manner for a few seconds before she turned.
“What are you staring at?”
Chris leaned against the fence post, arms folded. His expression was neutral, attentive, stripped of the easy warmth he wore for everyone else. “Your left drops.”
Anger coursed through her, and he took half a step back—as though he felt it. “Excuse me?”
“After the fourth combination. You reset, your guard comes back up, but the left hand sits about two inches lower than the right. Leaves a gap along the temple.” He took a drink of water. “Anyone fast enough would clock it.”
She stared at him. Her pulse kicked against her wrist wraps.
“And how long exactly have you been watching me to come to that specific conclusion?”
“I’ve been watching you since I got here. The specific pattern showed after the fourth rep.”
She turned back to the bag. Threw the combination. Jab, jab, cross, hook. Reset. She felt it. The left hand coming up, her shoulder rolling back a fraction late, the guard settling lower than it should. Two inches. He was right.
She hated that he was right.
“Nobody asked you.”
“You asked me why I was staring. I told you.”
She hit the bag again. Adjusted. The left hand came up faster this time, tucked tight against her cheekbone. The next reset was cleaner. She threw six more rounds, correcting each time, until the muscle memory started to overwrite itself.
Chris set his water bottle on the fence post and walked into the yard casually. He pulled a pair of focus mitts from the rack beside the equipment shed, slid them on, and held them up.
