The days bled into one another.
Each one a new circle of hell.
On the first day, Azrael's fists had turned to bloody stumps.
When he woke the next morning, they were bandaged.
The skin underneath was raw, but healed enough to move.
Quill stood over him, his face unreadable.
"Today, you will use your legs."
And so Azrael kicked.
He kicked the massive boulder until his shins were swollen, until every strike rattled his bones.
Every impact felt like his legs were going to split in half.
The day after, Quill said only one word.
"Head."
Azrael slammed his forehead into the rock.
Again and again. Until his skull rang, his vision blurred, and he collapsed into the dirt.
Then came pain training.
For weeks, Quill's fists were his only teacher.
He struck Azrael's arms, his legs, his chest, his back.
No defense. No escape. Only pain.
Every night, Azrael would drop to the floor like a corpse.
And every night, Quill would pour a vial of clear liquid into his mouth.
