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Rodin didn’t expect to sleep, but when he next opened his eyes it was two hours later. And he still felt rough.
The shower did little to help, only made the aching throughout his body more intense. He removed the grit from his stinging face and hands, and examined the multi-hued, tender mess that was his thigh.
At least nothing was broken. At least he could move unaided.
He changed—there were fresh clothes on the table—and considered running through his exercises. When had he last done that? Even back in the Factory, he’d been under the supervision of Ellya, hadn’t pushed himself too far.
He was out of shape. He was a mess.
Rodin groaned. Walking would help. It always did.
He pressed his hand against the door screen, but nothing happened. The door didn’t open when he
