The concrete floor was cold against Blade’s palms, his arms straining with every push-up. He ignored the pain stabbing through his ribs with each dip of his torso. Pain had become a companion—familiar, predictable, even comforting in a twisted way. The bruises hadn’t fully healed from the last beating. His jaw still clicked when he chewed, and one eye swelled up every time he woke.

Thirty-eight.

Thirty-nine.

Forty.

The count kept him sane.

The walls of the cell were gray and narrow, claustrophobic. There was no window, no clock, no mercy. Just steel and silence, broken only by the occasional grunt from another inmate or the distant echo of keys....