I know Asher is right. I know my body needs time. The hole in my side is healing, the stitches dissolved, the skin knitting together into another scar to add to my collection. But my muscles have gone soft from disuse. My reflexes are slow. And every time I close my eyes, I see Geneva burning and those damn kids slipping through our fingers.
So I do what I always do when the world gets too loud.
I fight.
The barn is cold in the early morning, frost still clinging to the windows. My breath fogs the air as I wrap my hands, the familiar ritual settling my nerves. Left hand, right hand. Tape betweenthe fingers, around the wrists. Armor for the parts of me that touch the world.
The heavy bag hangs in the center of the space, waiting.
I throw the first punch and pain lances through my side. Not the sharp agony of a fresh wound, but a deep ache that warns me to stop. I ignore it. Throw another punch. Another. Build a rhythm, let the impact travel up my arms and into my shoulders, let the physical sensation drown out everything else.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body shot.
My side screams. I keep going.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body shot.
Sweat drips down my face. My lungs burn. My muscles shake with the effort of holding a pace I haven't maintained in weeks.
Jab. Cross. Hook—
"You're going to tear your stitches."
Jace's voice cuts through the fog. I stop mid-swing, catching the bag to still it, and turn to find my brother in the barn doorway. He's dressed for training, loose pants and a fitted shirt, knives strapped to his forearms in the sheaths he designed himself. His gray eyes miss nothing. Never have. That's what makes him the Reaper.
"Stitches are out."
"Internal damage isn't healed. Liver trauma takes weeks to fully repair. You're working against a timeline that doesn't care about your impatience." He crosses to the equipment rack, selects a roll of tape with the same precision he uses for everything. "Elliot said four more days minimum before you should be doing any kind of contact work."
"Elliot's not my mother."
"No. He's the man who is monitoring you because he’s a nerd about learning how to do things and you’re his test subject for his medical hyperfixation." Jace's voice is flat, but there's an edge underneath. Concern, maybe. With Jace it's always hard to tell. He keeps everything locked down tight. "If you undo his work because you're too stubborn to follow advice, I'll hold you down while he stitches you up again. And I won't be gentle about it."
"You could try. Besides, he’s not a doctor, so I’m under no obligation to listen to that little dork."
"Watch yourself. You're at maybe sixty percent right now, probably less. I could take you with one hand tied behind my back." He starts wrapping his own hands, methodical, precise. Every motion perfect. "But I'd rather not. Asher would be upset, and upset Asher is annoying. He hovers."
My chest loosens. This is how Jace shows he cares. Not through words or gestures, but through presence. Through showing up ina cold barn at six in the morning because he knew I'd be here, pushing too hard, ignoring my limits.
"I need to move," I admit. "Sitting around is making me crazy. Every time I close my eyes, I see failure."
"Then move smarter." He finishes wrapping and steps onto the mat, his weight settling into a balanced stance. "Footwork drills. No contact, no strikes. You work on mobility, I work on timing. Everyone wins, nobody tears anything important."
"When did you become the reasonable one?"
"I've always been the reasonable one. You and Jagger are the chaos agents. I'm just here to clean up the mess." He settles into a fighting stance, hands loose at his sides. "Ready?"
We circle each other. No punches, no strikes. Just movement. Jace advances, I retreat. I advance, he retreats. Angles and positioning, the dance that happens before violence. The foundation everything else is built on.
It's surprisingly meditative. My side aches but doesn't scream. My muscles burn but don't fail. The rhythm of the drill pulls me out of my head and into my body, and for a few minutes, I can almost forget everything else.
Almost.
"Asher's good for you," Jace says without breaking stride.
"What?"
"You've been different since he showed up. Less..." He pauses, searching for the word with the same care he uses for everything. "Volatile. Chaotic. Self-destructive."
