The morning after Branson’s pressure test, I woke feeling like I had survived a small war. Every inch of me carried evidence: my calves tight as wires, my ribs aching where his hands had pressed for correction, my shoulders burning as though they’d hauled a weight up twelve flights of stairs. Bruises were forming beneath my skin, soft blue shadows that hadn’t fully surfaced yet, but I could feel them—tiny flames, reminders of the work.
I shuffled to the bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from my mouth, and lifted my shirt. There it was: a faint blotch across my side, the kind that would darken by nightfall. I touched it lightly, winced, and laughed. A laugh that sounded less like pain and more like pride. Because under the soreness, something else hummed. I had survived him. More than t
