The soft vibration of the alarm clock tried to find its way to her bones even from beneath the pillow. Sloane opened her eyes but didn't lift her head. For a while, she just lay there, motionless, the weight of the night still resting on her chest. The room was cool, faint morning light filtering through the cracks of the window.
The silence felt different now. Not peaceful—tense. The kind you didn't break with sudden movements—only careful, deliberate routines could make it bearable. She got up. Her knee didn't protest loudly, but she had to pause before putting her full weight on it. Her shoulder still pulled, but the pain was duller. Sloane didn't sigh. She didn't curse. She had simply learned to execute every movement economically. As if she were rationing her will. She walked to the bathroom. Washed her face. Brushed her hair. No need for makeup—it wasn't that kind of day. She pulled on a plain gray training top and black workout pants. Not her most comfortable clothes, but they created distance. And that was what she needed now. Not softness. Boundaries.
On the way to the kitchen, every object, every tile greeted her like an old companion. The coffee machine clicked softly to life, the steel pan began to warm with a whisper on the stove. Sloane portioned out the oil, the eggs, the vegetables. Sliced a banana. Sliced avocado. Toasted bread sprinkled with chili flakes. A protein smoothie, two ice cubes, just as the protocol recommended.
There was no gesture in it. No emotion. Only function. Because this was her job. And even if Lennox yelled at her, pushed her away, threw cutting words in her face—she would still do her job. This wasn't about emotion. It was a decision.
She placed the breakfast on a separate tray, at the far end of the counter. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she paused for a moment. Her hand rested on the smoothie glass. Her gaze drifted toward the hallway door. In the other direction: Lennox's room.
Part of her hoped he wouldn't come out. That she wouldn't have to see him. Look him in the eye. But something else... something more stubborn inside her wished he would. That he'd come out. Look at her. And try to believe that she was still here, in spite of everything.
She took her own plate, sat down at the table, and began eating. Every movement measured, deliberate, disciplined. No haste. No uncertain blinking. To an outsider, she would have seemed completely in control. But inside... every bite was a new battle. Not with the pain. But with the temptation to let herself go numb. The morning calm was like a perfectly calibrated lab scale: nothing tipped it. Every movement, every bite was part of the routine. Sloane ate. Slowly, steadily, methodically. The glass always returned to the same spot, the fork tapped gently against the plate, and every sip was followed by a precise number of chews.
Because that's how you controlled chaos. That's how you took back power when people failed but systems didn't. Then... a faint sound. Footsteps in the hallway. Lennox appeared in the doorway. And for a moment, everything tensed.
Sloane didn't look up immediately. She swallowed a bite, sipped her smoothie. Then she raised her gaze, like someone acknowledging a newcomer at a meeting—not like someone who'd been screamed out of a room the night before.
Lennox stood on the threshold. Barefoot, in gray shorts and a black T-shirt he hadn't fully pulled on. His hair was messy, his face more unshaven than usual. And his gaze... was locked on Sloane. As if waiting for her to look away, drop her eyes, retreat. But Sloane didn't move.
She simply looked back, calmly. She shifted her shoulder slightly forward to protect it—but even that, she did as if it meant nothing.
"Good morning," she said plainly. Her voice held nothing special. The same lifeless, polite neutrality one used to greet a taxi driver. Lennox didn't reply right away.
"You..." he began, then stopped. His voice was hoarse, quieter. "Why... why are you doing this?"
Sloane set her fork down on the plate, straightened slightly behind the table.
"Which part?"
"This." He gestured toward the breakfast. "The food. The... normal behavior. Sitting here like nothing happened."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Because nothing happened that affects my work. Today we still have a training plan, a nutrition protocol, a physical recovery schedule. You yelling at me doesn't exempt me from that."
Lennox's jaw tensed.
"You think I don't care?" he asked softly. "That I don't know what I did?"
"I don't think anything," Sloane replied. "And I don't care whether you care."
Lennox paused. His gaze ran over the breakfast. The perfectly portioned oats, the smoothie, the toast. Exactly what he always got. Like what a warrior gets before battle. Not reconciliation—discipline.
"Last night..." he started again, but Sloane raised her hand.
"Don't. Don't start. Whatever you were going to say doesn't change what needs to be done today. Your body is the priority now. Your soul... is not my responsibility, Graves."
The last word landed on the table like a stamp. Marking the boundary clearly: you don't let me in—I won't beg.
Lennox's face revealed little. But his movements slowed. He walked to the table—not quickly, not confidently—more like someone unsure if they still belonged. He sat down.
He didn't say thank you. But he started eating. Silently. And it was their first breakfast together where the silence wasn't born of hatred—but of not knowing what came next. Yet they still sat. At the same table.
Cutlery clicked softly against plates. Lennox said nothing, but he ate. Slowly, carefully, precisely. No clattering forks, no thrown bites. No commentary. The breakfast played out with near-military precision—like two strangers in a combat zone, eating rations before heading out to fight. Not for each other. Just beside each other. Then the hallway door creaked.
Sloane recognized the movement by sound alone.
Marcus entered, carrying that calm, steady presence that always filled the space. He wore workout gear: dark T-shirt, athletic pants, a thermos in his hand. His face, as always, unreadable—but his eyes immediately scanned the kitchen table. First Sloane. Then Lennox. Then... the breakfast.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face.
"No way," he muttered as he walked in. "I don't believe this. Graves is eating. Voluntarily."
Lennox didn't look up. Just pushed an avocado toast to the side of his plate and muttered dryly:
"Mark it in the history books."
Sloane sipped her smoothie and glanced at Marcus.
"Your coffee's on the counter. Still hot."
Marcus walked over, poured into his mug, then returned to the table. He sat in the third chair—the one that had always remained empty until now. He exhaled, looked around, and his voice held a faintly mocking edge, but also genuine surprise:
"I don't believe it. One table. Breakfast. Quiet. No injuries?"
Sloane looked at her plate.
"Not yet," she said softly.
Marcus took a sip, then looked at Lennox. The man was eating more slowly now. His gaze occasionally flicked toward Sloane, but he said nothing. Marcus didn't push conversation. Just observed.
"You know," he began, "in the past four years I think I've seen you eat breakfast maybe three times. Once at training camp, twice before fights—and all three times you raged so hard afterward the walls still echo."
"Don't worry," Lennox replied in a tired voice. "The mood's not exactly rainbow-bright today either."
Marcus nodded.
"And yet you're eating."
He grinned, set his thermos on the counter, and walked to the coffee machine. As he refilled his mug, he gave Sloane a quick glance—she still sat stiffly, posture measured, as if she were merely observing a laboratory experiment.
He returned to the table, sat again, and with a wide, conspiratorial smile turned to Sloane.
"And that's your doing, right? You actually got him to eat breakfast. That's... impressive, Quinn."
She acknowledged the comment with a quiet, polite nod, already preparing to rise when Marcus leaned forward and gave her a firm pat on the shoulder in approval.
"Nice work," he said with a rumble.
Except... he chose the wrong shoulder. The left one. The one Lennox had hit the day before. Sloane's body flinched instinctively, pain shooting through her as the touch struck the exact sore spot. The pain wasn't new—but the surprise and precision of the contact sent a sharp jolt through her nerves.
"Ahh!" she hissed, reflexively grabbing her arm, hand shooting to her shoulder. Her features didn't contort, she didn't cry out, but the sudden sound and movement shattered the kitchen's silence. Marcus's hand froze midair, his smile vanished.
"Shit..." he muttered, pulling back. "Your shoulder?"
Sloane nodded, not looking at him. She held her forearm across her body, gently massaging the aching point.
"It's not fully healed yet."
Lennox's fork paused midair. The kitchen froze for a beat. He didn't speak. Just watched her. First the movement—how she quietly, almost invisibly, tried to mask the pain. Then the shoulder—he knew exactly why it hurt. And finally, her face. It showed nothing. No anger. No hurt. No weakness. Just the usual control—now tighter than ever. Marcus leaned back.
"Sorry," he said softly, regretfully. "Reflex. I wanted to congratulate you."
"I appreciate it," Sloane replied. "Just bad timing."
Lennox put down his fork. The motion wasn't loud, but too deliberate to be casual. Sloane was already standing. One hand braced on the table, the other still gripping her shoulder.
"Training starts in thirty minutes," she said quietly but sharply, stripped of emotion. "Be on time."
Then she turned and walked out. But Lennox... watched her go. And not to judge her this time. But because, for the first time, he couldn't stop hearing that hiss of pain. And the realization that even like this, even with that pain—she had still stayed to make him breakfast.
It wasn't weakness.
It was something else.
Something he didn't understand.
And something that made him feel... uncomfortably human.
The running track area was located at the back of the PowerCore Gym complex—a closed, private section surrounded by tall, dense vegetation. In the mornings, it was always cooler here than in the main building, and the rubber-coated track provided soft yet firm feedback to every stride. Lennox already knew this ground. But today, he stepped onto it differently. His ankle moved tightly, his shoulders slightly lowered. Beside him, Sloane walked in complete silence, tablet in hand, and for the first time, she didn't look sideways. Her gaze was fixed ahead, her mask of professionalism clinging to her skin like armor against the rising sun.
Lennox glanced back once. Then again. He saw the movements. Her left arm was held just a little stiffer than usual. Her posture was impeccable, but the tiny adjustments, the overly precise rhythm... betrayed her. She was still in pain. And yet, she was here. In front of him. At the edge of the track. Like a commander who keeps leading, even when her hand is already bleeding.
"Step into lane one," Sloane said matter-of-factly. "Today's interval: eight sets, three pace changes, 200/400/600 meters in cycles, two minutes of recovery walking between rounds."
Lennox nodded and started warming up without a word.
Sloane set the watch, logged the workout in the system. Her shoulder reminded her with every move: people give up for far less. But she hadn't given up. Not at seventeen, not after surgery, and not now. Footsteps broke the silence.
Marcus was approaching from the other side of the track, dressed in athletic gear, coffee cup in hand. As he arrived, he gave Lennox a brief glance—he was already stretching—then looked at Sloane. His gaze lingered on her face, but he didn't ask. He simply stepped beside her.
"I'm too hungry to butt in," he said hoarsely. "But the fact that he's here, doing this, is surreal all by itself."
"He's just warming up," Sloane replied calmly. "The hard part's still coming."
Marcus nodded.
"And you? The shoulder?"
"Doesn't matter anymore," she shot back, quicker than she meant to. Her voice was sharp. Firm. Too firm. Marcus didn't call her out. But one of his eyebrows twitched slightly, as if to say: don't play the hero, Quinn. Sloane only leaned forward and activated the timer.
"Graves, first set! 200 meters, moderate pace! Go... now!"
Lennox launched like a spring. His legs cut across the track in steady rhythm, his breathing paced. His movements were coordinated, but too tight. Like someone not just running—but fleeing. Sloane tracked him along the sideline, values scrolling across her tablet screen: heart rate, stride length, center of gravity shift.
Marcus rested his hand on her shoulder—this time, the correct one—and muttered under his breath:
"You know he's going to try and show that he's sorry."
"I know," Sloane said without looking at him. "I don't care."
"Good."
A moment of silence followed. Then Marcus added, softly, almost offhandedly:
"But I do care how much it still hurts you."
Sloane clenched her jaw. Her eyes remained fixed on the display.
"It hurts for a day. Two, at most. Trauma doesn't linger because of the blow."
"Because no one apologized for it?"
"Because you know... they never will."
The tablet beeped. Lennox finished the first interval. His chest was rising with effort, but he didn't speak, didn't look at them—or anyone. But as he passed... his eyes flicked to Sloane's face. One second. And in that second, everything was there: guilt, confusion, defiance. The face of a man who doesn't know how to make amends for something he can't even admit to himself.
"Next set, four hundred meters!" Sloane called. "Now!"
Lennox took off again. And Sloane... stayed. Motionless. Her shoulder pulsing with pain, her body still radiating unshakable professionalism.
But something tensed at the corner of her face. A muscle she couldn't control.
Because this run wasn't just Lennox's test.
It had become her own endurance trial too.