The sky was still dark when Damien entered the training chamber.
No sunlight.
No audience.
Just cold air, silence, and the faint echo of his own breath.
The massive reinforced rope hung from the ceiling's support beams, thick as his forearm, coiled like a serpent awaiting its challenge. Below it, nothing but open space until the padded landing thirty feet down.
He stood beneath it, shirtless, gloved hands flexing once—then twice—against the chalk dust smeared across his palms.
His physique had changed.
Irrefutably.
Where once there had been softness, now there was symmetry.
Where once there had been weight, now there was power.
His abdomen was no longer some vague outline of effort—it was cut. Sharp lines defined each segment of his core, the muscles sitting beneath taut, warm skin, glistening under the glow of the overhead training lights.
