After Dev finished eating, Rowan told him—more like insisted—that he take a shower. Not only was his face covered in a chaotic mix of marinara and buffalo sauce, but the dried milk trailing down his neck had turned tacky and sour on his skin. Add in the sweat and whatever other impurities his body had flushed out during the nanite procedure, and he was, in Rowan’s words, “smelling like a gym locker dipped in a food court.”

  According to Xy’Rosh, the nanites had expelled all sorts of unpleasant leftovers: microplastics, bad cholesterol, and a colorful assortment of chemical junk clinging to his lungs from the couple years he spent sneaking cigarettes in high school.

  Dev returned the nanites to Rowan before heading toward the bathroom, grabbing the clothes he’d discarded and a clean towel on the way. He stepped into the shower, turned on the water, and stood under the cold stream without even waiting for it to heat up—just letting it wash over him.

  He stood there, motionless for a moment, feeling the cool cascade rush down his skin, rinsing off the grime and heat. Then he looked down and actually saw himself.

  His body was... different.

  He wasn’t huge, not bodybuilder-level or anything, but he’d definitely put on at least ten pounds of lean muscle. Everything looked tighter, more defined. The contours of his core were visible without needing to flex. His arms had a new thickness to them.

  He lifted one, flexing slowly.

  The striations in his bicep looked almost unnatural—like someone had taken a chisel to his flesh and carved out thousands of fine vertical lines, each one twitching slightly under the water’s touch. It didn’t feel wrong, though. Just...better

  He stretched his muscles a bit, falling into a familiar routine—one he hadn’t touched in years. Toe touches. Butterfly pose. Arm raises behind the back. Movements burned into his memory from long days training in the Hunter barracks.

  Only now… it felt different.

  Each stretch unfolded smoother than he remembered. No tension in the joints. No resistance in the muscles. His hamstrings lengthened effortlessly, shoulders loosened like they’d been oiled, and his back popped in a satisfying cascade of clicks when he reached overhead.

  It wasn’t just flexibility—it was control. Like every fiber of his body responded with precision, no delay between intent and motion. His limbs obeyed like calibrated instruments, not just flesh and bone.

  He paused mid-stretch, arms behind his back, shoulders drawn tight. Then he exhaled, slowly releasing the pose.

  He paused mid-stretch, arms locked behind his back, shoulders drawn tight—then exhaled, slowly releasing the pose with ease.

  I couldn’t even attempt this one when I first came back, he thought. Now it’s effortless.

  He took a moment to just stand there, letting the water roll over him as he reveled in the sensation. His new body felt right—closer to who he used to be. Sharper. Leaner. Stronger.

  Then he looked down and flexed his toes—inside the cast.

  His eyes narrowed. Wait a sec…

  He wiggled all five toes without pain. Not even a twinge.

  “…I’m gonna need to pick up a buzzsaw on the way home,” he muttered.

  He finished up his examination, rinsed off one last time, and stepped out of the shower. After drying off, he dressed quickly—clean boxers, joggers, and one of the t-shirts Rowan had tossed his way. His hair was still damp as he stepped out into the living room.

  In the living room, Rowan was still parked on the couch, remote in hand, watching something on the TV. He was also mid-argument—loud enough that Dev paused in the doorway.

  “What do you mean Liam Neeson couldn’t fight off a group of armed people in real life?” Rowan snapped. “He literally trained Batman and fought wolves with broken bottles taped to his hands.”

  Dev knocked on the wall to get Rowan’s attention. When that didn’t work, he cleared his throat—loudly.

  Rowan finally glanced over. “Oh. You’re done. Great. So… are we doing this core formation thing now, or am I gonna have to get a new social security number and start life as a Canadian?”

  “Not so fast,” Dev replied, rolling his shoulders and clenching and unclenching his fists. “We can do it a little later. First, I want to test my capabilities—calibrate my new normal.”

  Rowan arched an eyebrow, considering. Then he nodded slowly. “There’s a YMCA a block away. Not fancy, but it’s got weights, treadmills, punching bags… even an indoor court, Should be enough for a little montage.”

  “Lead the way then,” Dev replied, rolling his shoulder as if already gearing up.

  “First,” Rowan said, stepping closer, “let me cut off that cast for you.”

  A thin metal blade extended from his fingers with a faint shnk, folding out of his hand like it belonged there. It glinted under the overhead light as he knelt beside Dev’s leg and began slicing cleanly through the cast

  …..

  On a man-made island miles from the mainland, buried deep beneath layers of concrete and steel, a sub-basement thrummed with artificial light. In one of its most secure cells—Solitary Alpha—chained to the far wall was a man in a bright orange jumpsuit. Across his chest, the number 673 was stamped in bold, reflective print.

  His limbs were slack, but not from fatigue. The Alchemical Neuromuscular Blocking Agent coursing through his veins dulled more than just sensation—it rendered his mana inert, suppressing his ability to channel energy or activate even a minor skill. Every attempt came with searing agony, like fire running through raw nerve endings. Worse, it paralyzed enough muscle control that even his naturally enhanced physique was of no use.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He wasn’t just trapped underground.

  He was trapped inside his own body.

  A faint rattle echoed from the hallway, then a voice filtered in through the small, speaker-lined slot of the reinforced door. 673’s head lifted—not out of interest, but reflex. Probably just the guard with his daily dose of inhibitors.

  But then came something unexpected:

  “Six-Seven-Three… you’ve got a visitor.”

  He blinked, lips curling slightly in confusion. A visitor? In Gehenna?

  The prison wasn’t just some high-security facility—it was the high-security facility. An Alcatraz for awakened criminals deemed too dangerous or unstable for the standard prison system. If you ended up here, your visitors didn’t come bearing gifts. They came with shackles or coffins.

  It had only been a few days since his sentencing. If it hadn’t been for that smug bastard with the longsword—Davies—and his damn body cam, he might’ve weaseled out with a lighter sentence. Lack of physical evidence and all that… it had all been working in his favor until some Porter got in the way.

  Now here he was. Three life sentences. Zero appeal. Rotting in a dungeon because of some disposable no-name porter who probably didn’t even realize what he’d done.

  Dain cracked his neck, eyes narrowing toward the door as footsteps drew closer.

  Who the hell would visit him here?

  Dain squinted against the harsh fluorescence spilling in from the hallway. Even that artificial light felt like a foreign invader after days spent submerged in the artificial twilight of solitary. He hissed through his teeth, eyes adjusting slowly as the sound of boots and reinforced armor echoed down the corridor.

  A squad of guards approached—full armor, military-grade gear, automatic weapons slung across their chests. One of them carried an anti-materiel rifle, its barrel nearly the length of Dain’s torso. A weapon like that wasn’t meant for threats. It was for monsters.

  He didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really. Even so, he caught one of the guards flinching slightly as they unshackled him from the wall. The blocking agent dulled his muscles and fried his nerves, but it didn’t soften his body. He could barely move, and they still treated him like a bomb with a heartbeat.

  “Get up, 673,” one of them barked. “You’ve got a visitor. You’ll be escorted to the visitation room. No funny business.”

  Dain shuffled forward, his body sluggish, heavy. The only way out of the sub-basement was a solitary freight elevator, caged in steel and humming faintly like a caged beast. They guided him in—three on each side—and pressed the ascent panel.

  The ride was long. Silent. He counted the soft clicks of floor numbers as they passed: B8... B7… B6…

  Eventually, it stopped with a sharp metallic hiss. The elevator doors opened, revealing a single room suspended in open space, encased in reinforced glass.

  A narrow steel cable anchored it above a massive chasm—black as pitch, save for the faint red blinking of surveillance lights buried deep below. It looked like a box floating over the mouth of hell.

  “If you try anything funny, it’s a forty-mile drop,” one of the guards said, his voice low and firm. “That pit’s lined with stalagmites sharper than spears. I don’t care how tough you freaks are—if the fall doesn’t kill you, starvation and infection will. And nobody’s coming to dig you out. Understand?”

  Dain gave a slow, mechanical nod.

  “Good.”

  They shoved him into the room with calculated force, guiding him to a steel chair bolted into the floor. As he was seated, a guard chained his wrists to the table, double-checking the locks before stepping back.

  “Twenty minutes.” The lead guard said, stepping out and sealing the door with a hiss of pressure. “Make ’em count.”

  Dain sat there in silence, breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the table.

  “Oy, co?o—look at me.”

  Dain raised his head and stared at the man who had just cursed at him.

  He was older, dressed in a sharp black suit and tie, with a salt-and-pepper beard and dark gray pin-straight hair slicked back. The corners drooped slightly, like gravity had been slowly winning over the years. His expression was calm—almost bored—but something in his eyes, a deep, night-dark brown, made Dain’s instincts flare.

  “Who are you?” Dain asked.

  “That is none of your concern,” the man replied, his words tinged with a thick Spanish accent. “Let’s just say we share—shared—a common employer.”

  Dain snarled. “You… you’re from Caelum, aren’t you?”

  “No,” the man replied simply. “Are you done with your questions?”

  Dain didn’t believe him. Not for a second. The mana radiating from the man was far too refined—too dense—for a civilian. He was definitely a hunter.

  “Gua—” Dain began to shout, but stopped cold.

  The man calmly slid two photographs across the table. One was of the porter—the one who had cost him everything. The other was of a little girl, no older than ten.

  Dain’s breath caught.

  He knew that face. That curly hair. Those bright, fearless eyes.

  The man was holding a picture of his daughter.

  Dain lunged across the table, chains clanking, the glass box swaying violently on its suspension cables. “Why do you have her picture? Who the hell are you!?”

  But the man didn’t flinch. He didn’t even raise his voice.

  “Ashley Barret-Qui?ónez,” the man said, completely ignoring Dain’s rage. “Eight years old. Her mother sued for full custody after the divorce… and she won. You haven’t seen Ashley legally in six years.”

  He tapped one finger on the photo.

  “But your child support payments? Always on time.” A pause. “Sometimes even overpaid.”

  The man placed two fingers to a discreet earpiece, pausing.

  “P.S. 85, Maggie Walker Elementary. The Bronx.” He glanced at the photo again, then locked eyes with Dain. “Room 203. Ms. Lamosa’s class. They’re doing social studies today—she just raised her hand to answer a question about the Revolutionary War.”

  “Answering all her teacher’s questions. Una chava con cabeza. Smart girl. You should be proud.”

  Dain’s hands curled into fists, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He forced his mana to respond, ignoring the searing pain that racked his body as the suppression drug fought back. His vision darkened at the edges, veins bulging in his arms as he tried—tried—to summon the strength to break free, to smash through the glass before he fell into the abyss below and strangle the bastard across from him.

  “Stop,” the man said.

  It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t even particularly loud.

  But his aura flared—dense, cold, corrupted. It hit Dain like a wall, slamming into his chest and hurling him back into the chair. His chains rattled, his body trembling under the pressure.

  “Anymore of this,” the man said, tone colder than ice, “and you will die. And if you die, I don’t get what I want.”

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes dark and deadly.

  “And if I don’t get what I want... I kill your mija. So sit. The fuck. Down.”

  Dain slumped back into his chair, the chains clinking softly as he sank into the weight of it all. His eyes glazed over in anguish. The rage was gone—burned out and buried beneath something heavier.

  He bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood.

  "...What do you want to know?" he asked, voice low, defeated.

  The man smiled—not warmly, but with the satisfaction of a chess player making the final move.

  He slipped the photo of the girl back into his coat and replaced it with another. This one showed the same porter—the one who had ruined Dain’s job—being carried in a princess hold by some kind of armored figure. Sleek. Unmistakably inhuman. An android, maybe.

  “Now,” the man said, laying the photo down between them, “tell me everything you know about this porter… and this metal man who foiled your job.”

  Dain’s gaze dropped to the photo.

  Then it all clicked.

  Dain’s eyes widened as realization dawned. The puzzle pieces snapped together, one after the other—too fast, too loud in his head to ignore.

  He stared at the man across from him, breath shallow.

  “You… you're with them the ones who hired me and Boris.”

  The man tilted his head, just slightly.

  “Bueno. I told you,” he said, his voice soft and lethal. “We shared an employer.”

  He tapped the photo once, lightly.

  “Now speak.”