A New Dawn

Seth POV

The hot air is almost suffocating, the stench of dirty bodies surrounds me, and if I had anything in my stomach, I’d probably vomit. Again. I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my forehead, but when it hits the floor, its color is red. My wrists ache against the plastic cuffs holding them to the metal chair. Today is a good day; they let me sit instead of hanging me by some extremity.

There are no windows to help me gauge how long I’ve been here. They forget to feed me more often than they remember, but they feed me enough to keep me here, existing for their pleasure. They think this is my first time in hell, idiots. I was born in hell.

A door opens behind me.

I know what they want from me, what they think I’ll give if they can break me—my brothers—the only friends I have, and it’s a shame I’ll never see them again. At some point, my tormentors will understand this, and it will be my end, as long as they survive; I don’t care.

A man approaches; I can’t focus on his features, my attention is entirely on the curved blade he holds in his hands, his favorite if our previous encounters are any indication. I prepare my mind for the pain, hiding the part of me that still feels it, burying it so deep it can’t be used against me. Against them.

The tip of the knife presses against my abdomen, not to cut, not yet. Their currency is fear; every movement is calculated to extract the maximum terror possible. My only source of amusement over the past, God knows how many days, is seeing them frustrated by not achieving what they want most: my ruin.

I sit up in bed, heart racing, my hand clutching the handle of my Strider SMF knife, as I scan every corner of my room for any threat. Two black paws like a moonless night appear on the mattress beside me, and Banguela sniffs the air attentively. He taps one of his paws against my thigh, and I slowly exhale through my mouth.

“It’s okay, boy.” I pat the bed twice, and he jumps up, sinking into the mattress and burying his huge head in my neck. “Sorry for waking you.”

I look around once more; the clock on my nightstand reads 4:28. It’s not that early today, I think. I spend a few minutes stroking Banguela’s short fur, trying to calm my instincts.

“I’m not in the desert; I’m home. I made it out.” I repeat to myself over and over.

The air seems to prick my skin; I try to settle back into bed, but everything bothers me: the way the sheet feels like it’s scratching my skin, the trees moving in the breeze outside, casting shadows in my room through the window without curtains. The remnants of the dream chase my consciousness until staying still is no longer an option.

“Want to run, boy?” I ask, rubbing Banguela’s head, his yellow eyes seeming to shine as he licks my face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I wash my face with cold water before putting on a pair of gray sweatpants and a t-shirt. I fasten the thick black leather collar around Banguela’s neck, blending into his fur with only the gold metal buttons and the buckle visible.

He gets excited and starts jumping.

"Shhhh, everyone is sleeping."

The fresh night air is like a soothing balm. Banguela walks beside me; he was trained at the same school as Cerberus and Apollo, but my pit bull has always been the most well-behaved of the three.

"Going for a run, sir?" Mark, one of the night guards, asks. "Wow, time flew by today; I thought it was still around two in the morning."

"I need to take advantage before the sun comes up," I reply.

As soon as we pass through the gates, I start running slowly, gradually increasing the pace until we’re running at a speed that keeps me from thinking about anything other than my breathing. Banguela stays by my side, used to running with me since he was a pup.

My shirt is already soaked with sweat when I decide it’s time to head back and the sky begins to show signs of dawn, which means Kyle will be up soon. We get home, and Banguela darts straight to his water bowl, drinking noisily and making me laugh.

"Feeling hungry, Night Fury?" I joke, referring to his name and origin; the feared dragon for its shape, but in reality, he’s a great friend and companion. Once he finishes his water, I give him some kibble and refill his water bowl. I grab my phone and headphones from the kitchen counter where I left them, give Banguela a few pats on the back as he eats, and then head to the gym at the back of the house.

Since Raffi, Kyle, and I are extremely active and exercise is an integral part of our routine, when we bought the house, we remodeled two rooms into one to create a gym, which features the best equipment on the market and a large space for martial arts training. This is probably the room I use the most.

I toss the sweaty t-shirt into a corner of the room and head to one of the upper body machines, put on my headphones, and start my playlist. As "Figure.09" by Linkin Park fills my ears, drowning out my memories and giving voice to my feelings, I push my muscles to their limit.

***

I'm at the end of my workout, punching one of the sandbags to the rhythm of System of a Down. Each contact of my wrapped fists with the canvas is a release. For every memory that threatens to invade my mind, a punch. I try to force my brain to focus on the movements, on the present moment, without wandering into the past.

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn, throwing a punch purely out of reflex, but Kyle easily dodges.

"Sorry, Thorne," I say, removing one of my headphones.

"My bad, I didn’t see you had headphones on. What are you up to today?"

"Today?" He tilts his head, and I try to remember if I had any plans. "Nothing I can recall. I guess I’ll drop by the studio this afternoon, see if Tristan needs help."

"I need a favor," Kyle says.

My whole body goes on alert.

"What?"

"I have to go to the Hades' Men headquarters. Heron called, and the royal family of Calanthe needs a team in Brazil as soon as possible. I need to organize that, and Brooke has to pick up her stuff from the apartment of…"

"I’ll go with her," I interrupt, and he smiles.

"Take the pickup, Seth."

"Of course. What did you think I’d do? Take her on your Harley?" I ask, teasing, as I push his shoulder. "Do we have boxes?"

"I don’t think so. Stop by somewhere and get some. She’ll want to go alone, but I don’t trust Patrick enough for that."

"I don’t trust him, period. Especially after yesterday and the tantrum he threw. I still think I was too gentle; he didn’t even go to the hospital," I say.

"Seth…"

I raise my arms in surrender.

"I promise not to provoke him, but if he lays a hand on her again…"

"Fair enough."

***