I already know the lever that moves him.
"Gym," I say, not turning. "Now."
He moves at once. Of course he does.
The penthouse features a training room separate from the main living space, tucked away in the west wing where sound doesn't travel. I had it installed after last year's assassination attempt made it clear that stepping outside for a workout presents vulnerabilities.
Heavy bags hang from reinforced beams, and mats cover the floor. In the center, the ring stands with ropes clean and tight, waiting for violence.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it aside. As I wrap my hands, I pull the cloth tight enough to feel the pressure settle into the bones of my knuckles.
Maksim stands at the edge of the mat, watching me with a blankness I want to shatter.
"Get in," I say.
Without being told, he removes what he carries—jacket, holster, the blade at the small of his back—placing each item down with a care that seems respectful. Then he wraps his hands and steps into the ring.
We face each other.
The light is unforgiving, bright enough to reveal every detail. I notice the faint yellowing of the bruise on his ribs and the marks on his skin that tell the story of the restaurant fight. But most striking is the emptiness in his eyes.
Not tired. Not wary. Just... vacant. As if he has poured everything out of himself and sealed the container.
I move first.
A quick jab aimed to test him. He blocks without thought.
I follow with a combination. He absorbs it with perfect form—no stumble, no grimace, no counter. My fist lands close enough to feel the density of his muscle; it's like hitting a door that doesn't give.
He's not fighting. He's enduring.
I circle, searching for an opening. He pivots with me, tracking smoothly, his stance grounded, guard high. Everything is correct.
Everything is dead.
I press harder. I speed up. I let my strikes snap louder, sharper. I clip his ribs, catch his shoulder, and a glancing hit to his jaw turns his head.
He takes it.
He gives me nothing in return.
Frustration rises so quickly it blurs my vision. My breath thickens, and my wrists begin to ache from the repeated impacts against his forearms.
"Is this what they taught you?" I say, letting the words cut. "To stand there and take it?"
His eyes remain locked on mine. His hands stay up. He doesn't answer.
I step in with a knee. He shifts and takes it on the hip, turning my force away.
I shove him with my shoulder, trying to unbalance him.
He doesn't move.
I want to laugh. I want to scream.
"They did a good job," I say, my voice low and ugly. "They made you so clean. So obedient you could pass for furniture."
Still nothing.
