I stretched my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache radiating through my ribs. The regenerator brace hummed softly against my chest, its technological magic the only thing keeping my torso from falling apart like a broken puzzle.
Sixty minutes.
That's all I had left before I walked back into that arena and faced Julian Valerius. Again.
The prep room felt smaller than it should have, the silence thicker than I expected. Most of the Hounds had scattered—grabbing food, taking nervous pisses, or doing whatever people do when they're trying not to think about their friends getting publicly beaten in front of twenty thousand strangers. The concrete walls seemed to press in closer with each breath, painted in that institutional beige that screamed "budget cuts" and "minimum effort."
I sat alone on the metal bench, my bat resting across my knees like a meditation object.
Breathing.
Just breathing.
