“Come on, boy,” Will mutters under his gravelly breath, exhaling the smoke of the cigarette between his fingers. He sets the whiskey mug on the nightstand with a dull clink and straightens, spine protesting from the hits he took minutes ago, but he wears the ache like a badge.

The heavy metal pounds the walls, rattling the room like incoming fire. The air is thick with sweat, bad habits, and men trying to forget what they are. Will rolls his shoulders, loose but coiled, eyes sharp despite the fatigue dragging at him.

He’s tired. Just not done.

“That all you got?”