CHAPTER 2

  Crack! Crack!

  “Master… I’m sorry! Pitié…!”

  Crack!

  I jolt awake, sweat running down my face, lungs clawing for air.

  F***… almost three years since my last run-in with the aristocrats, yet I still see that dream. Von… and his twisted idea of human rights.

  The memory hits like a cold draft through a sealed window—sharp, uninvited, unavoidable.

  At this point I’m used to the guilt-soaked lucid nightmares… but the sweating? Never.

  I can’t tell if I’m drenched from shame or from the suffocating summer heat. The room is always humid. And Dad still refuses to get AC. It’s 2042, old man.

  Every time I ask, “Why no AC?”

  He just answers with one word: “Discipline.”

  Exhale.

  Hard-headed for no reason. Probably why there are only two bachelors in a house built for five.

  “What’s the time…?”

  4:34 a.m.

  The dim glow of my phone flickers under the thin blanket I always sleep with.

  “I should get ready before Dad drags me downstairs.”

  I peel myself out of my oversized bed—big enough for three people—and step into the walk-in wardrobe beside it. Gray baggy sweatpants. Tight white wife-beater. Standard gym uniform.

  I head down to the basement gym, the smell of rubber mats and cold metal already hanging in the thick air.

  —Knock knock—

  Heartbeat rises.

  “Oh, Eli, my boy. You surprise me. It’s not even five yet.”

  “Yeah… I know. Dreams woke me up, so I figured I’d come early.”

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Dad stands tall—shoulders broad, posture immovable—like a man the world never dared challenge. Even leaning on the doorway, he dominates the space. He gives me that grin… the “Attaboy” grin. I don’t hate it, but it always makes me feel like a well-trained German shepherd.

  “So. Wet dreams got you sweating, boy?”

  Oh right. I never washed my face.

  The sweat from Von’s voice still clings to me.

  “No, no. I’m not like you. It wasn’t a wet dream. Just… stuff.”

  Thomas gives me that overly serious look—neutral, evaluating, unreadable.

  “Real men don’t sweat the small stuff. How many times must I say it?”

  “Right, right.”

  Same conversation every time the nightmare shows up. Planned or coincidence—I honestly can’t tell.

  “So… what are we training today?”

  —Hmmm—

  “Arms for me.”

  “Chest for you.”

  One glance at his forearms and anyone would know he’s been training longer than most men have been alive. Sweat already coats him, meaning he’s been down here for hours. His arms look swollen, pumped to their limit—though for him, that’s just the warm-up.

  The dumbbells by the mirror still look warm, like they’re holding the ghost of his grip. First victims of the morning.

  Working out with him is pure torture. But if I want a body that screams discipline… he’s the blueprint.

  When people say “Man of Steel,” I don’t look up at the stars. I look at the guy in my basement.

  Still… chest?

  “Okay, but why chest?”

  “Look at that small valley you call a chest. No woman would rest her head on that.”

  “That’s harsh. I think I look good! I even have ten-pack abs now.”

  “It’s not about looking good. It’s about function. What’s the point of looking like those Korean malnutritions if the body is weak? A man needs layers to protect himself.”

  “Protect him from what?”

  —Silence—

  “…Never mind. Let’s start. Work starts at eight today. We leave early.”

  There he goes again—talks about strength but dodges the reason behind it.

  I drop down for close-grip push-ups.

  My palms dig into the carpet. My arms tremble as my chest stretches. Heat blooms across my pecs, a slow, steady burn. I hover just above the floor, breath tight… then push up, heavy and controlled.

  Triceps tighten like drawn wire.

  Chest contracts.

  I rise inch by inch until I lock out, fire pulsing through every fiber.

  And while I’m struggling—damn near dying—I glance at my dad.

  He lies back on the bench, massive frame sinking into the padding.

  Thick fingers wrap around the bar.

  He unracks 300 kg.

  The metal groans.

  His chest expands—a literal slab of muscle—as the weight lowers slow and controlled. His arms tremble, veins bulging like coiled cables. A low growl escapes him.

  Then—explosive.

  His whole body contracts.

  He drives the bar upward with brute violence.

  The bar shakes.

  He doesn’t.

  Two hours later, my whole body is buzzing. I know I’m above average—I’m 16, 5'11", lean, fast, and gifted with good genetics. Sweat trickles down my neck. The air feels like warm fog.

  But still… comparing myself to that man?

  It would be stupid.

  At 6'7”, built like Kingpin’s meaner brother, every tendon and vein on his arms maps raw power. His face could make a mob boss look like a choir boy.

  A square jaw, thick brows, eyes sharp with intelligence and mischief.

  He doesn’t just stand in a room.

  He owns it.

  Like the space was carved for him.

  The morning ended, so we headed up stairs to the first floor to freshen up. Our bodies full of energy ready to start the day however…..

  “Deep down… I knew this morning was the last normal one I’d ever have.”