The air in the basement dungeon was warm and heavy, thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and spent adrenaline.
On the low, suede-upholstered daybed in the corner of the room, Dean lay curled on his side, wrapped in a plush weighted blanket. His body was completely spent, his muscles humming with a soft, dull ache from the intense scene Kellan had just taken him through. The relentless, methodical discipline had shattered the last of Dean's mental barriers, leaving him utterly raw and unburdened.
A final, shuddering sigh escaped Dean's lips into the quiet room, his eyelashes heavy with drying tears.
Footsteps echoed softly on the concrete floor—not the sharp, imposing tread of Master Obsidian, but the quiet, deliberate movement of a man coming home.
Kellan set down a tray on the low
