The whistle blew, a shrill blast that ricocheted off the cavernous gym walls. The sound seemed to rattle the steel beams overhead, vibrating through the floodlights and down into the sweat-slick floor. Sneakers hammered against concrete, scattering dust like powder smoke from a cannon blast.
Franz did not move at first. He stood in the center of the chaos, motionless, his breathing measured. Inhale. Exhale. The hood of his sweatshirt draped low, shadowing most of his face, but steam still curled from his lips in the cold air. His chest rose and fell in a deliberate rhythm—controlled, steady, the calm of a warhorse before the charge.
