The rain over the Northwood Retreat had settled into a heavy, relentless drone, drumming against the expansive glass panels of the private cabins. Inside his designated suite, Marcus was packing. The atmosphere in the room was suffocatingly quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute biological violence that had shattered his reality in the communal mass room just nights prior.
His movements were stiff, defensive, and deliberate. He folded his heavy tactical coats, his knuckles locking white around the fabric as his muscle memory forcefully tried to suppress the phantom sensations still coiling deep within his nerve endings. Every time he shifted his weight, a sharp, localized ache radiated through his lower pelvis—a brutal, physical reminder of the GEM Director's invasive, hyper-masculine execution. His body felt altered, its traditional S-tier Beta autonomy thoroughly vandalized by Kaelan's chemically engineered dominance.
