Apollo's gaze was locked, paralyzed, on the hand that had intercepted Zane's fist. The impact had sent a shudder through the very air, a silent testament to the sheer force that had been inches away from shattering Apollo's ribs.
He had spent months studying Rex Rexilion. He had seen him across breakfast tables in the quiet of the morning, watched him through the grit of expedition camps, and tracked his shadow through the polished corridors of the Academy.
Apollo knew the nuances of Rex's face, the subtle shifts in muscle, the calm of a man at rest. But this? This was not the face of a comrade.
This was the face of a predator that had materialized from the chaos with a terrifying, surgical composure. That stillness didn't bring Apollo peace; it brought a cold, visceral dread that complicated the simple relief of not being broken.
