Sloane woke just before dawn, minutes ahead of the alarm's chirp. Her sleep had been shallow, her muscles weighed her down like lead, and the pain radiating from her shoulder pulsed with stubborn memory—her body hadn't forgotten. Nor would it forgive.
But she didn't groan. Didn't move for a long time. She just lay there, counting.
The clock. The tasks. The load they could cram into the next forty-eight hours. Recovery windows. Nutritional cycles.
By the time Lennox woke, Sloane was already in the kitchen. Boxes, supplements, and training schedules were lined up with military precision. The tablet sat on the counter, her shoulder braced with offloading tape. Her left arm was useless, but her right moved with speed, control, and accuracy. Her expression was cold, calculated.
Today, there
