The courtyard of the Nightwing estate was no longer a place of training; it was a consecrated ground for a massacre. The air itself felt brittle, as if the atmosphere had been crystallized by the sheer force of Theo's lingering temporal distortion.
Rex Rexilion stood in the center of the training circle, his movements precise, almost hypnotic. He moved through the mastery's martial forms, a flowing sequence of deadly transitions designed to maintain the body's combat memory.
Each strike was silent, each shift of weight absolute. He looked less like a man practicing and more like a predator maintaining its edge.
Theo watched from the shadows of the colonnade. His breathing was ragged, each inhale feeling like he was swallowing broken glass.
His knuckles were still split and weeping blood, but he didn't feel the pain. All he felt was the white-hot, pulsing hatred that had become his new heartbeat.
His mind was a fractured mirror, reflecting only one image: Rex's face.
