He steps into the circle of flickering overhead lights, the sound of a generator buzzing faintly in the background. The room is lined with mirrors, cracked in places, dusty in others.

He throws a towel onto the floor, then drops a bag of salt beside it.

His boots echo as he circles the space, eyes scanning every corner. He stops near one mirror and stares at his own reflection.

“You only flinch once,” he says quietly, pulling off his gloves. “After that, it’s a habit.”

He crouches, scoops a handful of salt, and lets it fall in a slow trail, forming a rough line around the center of the room.

“Cross it when you’re ready,” he says, wiping his hands. “But know this—pain doesn’t leave. It waits. It watches.”

And then he smiles, just barely. “Time to see if you’re worth watching back.”