I leaned against the weight rack in Onyx House's basement training gym, nursing what had to be the most aggressively mediocre cup of coffee I'd ever tasted. The brew was lukewarm, bitter, and had the mouthfeel of liquid regret.
My muscles ached from last night's activities—both the marathon Monopoly session and what came after when Natalia cornered me in my room to "discuss strategy."
Six in the morning. The air down here tasted like old sweat mixed with the sharp tang of ozone from whatever electrical equipment powered the ancient training equipment. Someone had left a window cracked open, letting in the island's humid sea breeze.
The rest of my fellow Hounds were trickling in, looking about as thrilled to be awake as death row inmates headed to their final meal.
