I leaned against the weight rack in Onyx House's basement training gym, nursing what had to be the most aggressively mediocre cup of coffee I'd ever tasted. The brew was lukewarm, bitter, and had the mouthfeel of liquid regret.

My muscles ached from last night's activities—both the marathon Monopoly session and what came after when Natalia cornered me in my room to "discuss strategy."

Six in the morning. The air down here tasted like old sweat mixed with the sharp tang of ozone from whatever electrical equipment powered the ancient training equipment. Someone had left a window cracked open, letting in the island's humid sea breeze.

The rest of my fellow Hounds were trickling in, looking about as thrilled to be awake as death row inmates headed to their final meal.

Jaime arrived first, naturally. The man was already shirtless, his ridiculous physique on full display as he started doing warm-up stretches that looked more like yoga positions designed by a particularly sadistic contortionist. His green hair stuck up in all directions, somehow making him look even more energetic.

"Good morning, my brothers and sisters!" he boomed, his voice ricocheting off the concrete walls. "What a glorious day to forge our bodies and souls! Before we begin, I must ask—"

"If you finish that sentence, I'm throwing a dumbbell at your head," Raphael snarled, stomping down the stairs. His blonde hair was a mess, and his amber eyes burned with enough hostility to melt steel. He went straight for the heavy bag in the corner and started wailing on it with enough force to make the ceiling-mounted chain groan.

Hikari bounded down next, somehow matching Jaime's energy despite the ungodly hour. She wore a sports bra and compression shorts that showcased the thick, powerful muscles of her legs. "Morning practice! This is perfect! Jaime-kun, want to spar after warm-ups?"

"It would be my honor, Hikari-chan!"

Jesus Christ. It's like watching two golden retrievers who discovered cocaine.

Juan shuffled in next, looking like death warmed over. He didn't even bother changing—still wearing the same wrinkled shirt from last night. Without a word, he spread a yoga mat in the far corner, lay down on it, and immediately went back to sleep.

Jacob appeared at the doorway, looking around nervously before scurrying to a spot near the wall-mounted monitors. He pulled out his ever-present datapad and started typing, probably cataloging everyone's Aspects or some other data he thought might keep him alive.

Isabelle descended the stairs like she was entering a ballroom instead of a basement gym. Her athletic wear probably cost more than most people's monthly rent—sleek black leggings, a fitted top in deep burgundy, and her wine-colored hair pulled back in an elegant ponytail. Every movement screamed aristocratic grace.

Noah followed half a step behind, dressed in a plain gray tracksuit that did absolutely nothing to hide the dangerous curves underneath. Her short blonde hair was slightly mussed from sleep, and her amber eyes swept the room in constant threat assessment mode.

Then Natalia appeared.

My brain short-circuited for approximately half a second.

She wore form-fitting purple and black athletic gear that should probably be illegal. The top hugged every curve, the fabric stretching across her chest in ways that made my mouth go dry. The leggings clung to her hips and ass like they'd been painted on. Her blue hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and her violet eyes were carefully avoiding mine.

I caught the exact moment she glanced at me. Her gaze traveled down, lingered for a heartbeat too long on the gray sweatpants, and her cheeks flushed that beautiful shade of pink I'd become intimately familiar with.

She whipped her head away, crossing her arms under her chest in a way that only made things worse for my concentration.

Noted. Next time, wear compression shorts under the sweats.

Akari sauntered in next, stretching in a way that was clearly designed for maximum attention. Her tank top rode up to expose her tanned midriff, and she bent forward at the waist to touch her toes, giving everyone behind her a generous view.

"Mmm, nothing like a good morning workout to get the blood pumping," she purred, straightening up and catching me staring. She winked, then leaned over to whisper something to Hikari that made her twin giggle.

I took another sip of the terrible coffee, resigned to my fate as the entertainment.

Emi and Soomin entered together, both looking like they'd barely slept. Emi wore an oversized hoodie that hung past her hips, paired with tiny athletic shorts that her sweater mostly hid. Her blue hair was tied back in a messy bun, and when she saw me, she immediately found her shoes fascinating.

Soomin had chosen the opposite approach—baggy sweatpants and a loose t-shirt that somehow still managed to highlight her figure whenever she moved. Her pink hair was down, framing her face as she clutched that seashell charm like a lifeline.

Malachi and Marco appeared last, both in standard black workout gear, looking tired but functional.

Six-ten. No instructor.

Raphael stopped attacking the heavy bag long enough to glare at the empty doorway. "Where the hell is Miller?"

Six-twenty. Still nothing.

"Is this some kind of test?" Raphael demanded, his voice echoing off the walls. "Are we supposed to just start training ourselves?"

Isabelle had claimed a spot near the mirrors and was going through a series of stretches that looked like they belonged in a professional dance company. "Patience is a virtue, Vargas-san. Perhaps our instructor wishes to observe how we handle ambiguity."

"That's stupid," Raphael shot back.

Six-thirty. Right when I was starting to wonder if we'd actually been abandoned, the door swung open.

Braxton Miller ambled in like he had all the time in the world.

The man looked like he'd slept in his clothes. His instructor's tracksuit—standard issue NVA navy blue with gold trim—was wrinkled enough to suggest he'd used it as a pillow. His dark brown hair stuck up at odd angles, and his eyes were half-lidded in that perpetual state of exhaustion I'd already come to recognize from our brief meeting at the Gala.

He carried a battered travel mug that smelled like gas station coffee. Somehow even cheaper than what I was drinking.

"You're late!" Raphael barked, his fists still crackling with residual kinetic energy.

Braxton stopped. Took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee. Swallowed. Then looked at Raphael with the kind of tired patience usually reserved for particularly stupid children.

"Sorry about that. Got lost on the road of life."

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