Milo was in Salvatore’s office. His arms were shaking so badly he couldn’t trust them. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the floor as he forced himself back up from the floor, again, for the fourth time.

His body was already broken. He was exhausted from the morning workout with the others. And now, Salvatore expected him to drop his big, bulky body onto the floor.

Milo was gasping for breath.

Salvatore stood over him. The gentleness from yesterday was completely gone, as if yesterday had never happened.

"Get up."

Milo sighed. He pushed.

Soon, Salvatore shoved him, and he hit the floor for the fifth time, his elbow taking the impact hard. He let out a short, sharp cry and rolled onto his side, clutching his arm.

Salvatore stood over him and waited.

"You were trapped in that bathroom because you weren’t fast enough," Salvatore said, his voice stripped of everything but fact.

Milo gulped. He knew he was weak.

"You were helpless because you weren’t strong enough to stop them. If I hadn’t come through that door, you’d be back in Nero’s hands. Do you understand what that means?"

Milo’s throat tightened. He understood it. He had been understanding it every day, and he didn’t need it said out loud to feel the weight of it. But it was being said out loud anyway, and his body reacted before he could stop it.

A sob came out of his chest, ugly and uncontrolled. He hated the sound of it.

"I know—"

"Then try harder." Salvatore’s voice didn’t change. "Be strong. The world doesn’t care about your tears. It only wants to know if you’re still standing when it’s done with you."

"Get up."

Milo felt his arms shaking so badly as he pushed himself up that he had to stop twice before he made it to his knees.

Salvatore watched him without moving. No hand offered. No change in his tone.

Milo made it to his feet.

He threw a punch immediately, trying to use what was left of his momentum. Salvatore caught his wrist, twisted it, and put him back on the floor.

Milo tried to hook his leg as he fell. Salvatore stepped around it effortlessly, and Milo hit the floor flat.

He lay there. He breathed heavily in frustration. Damn!

"Get up," Salvatore said.

Milo got up again.

He tried a kick this time, low, aiming for the knee the way he had been shown. Salvatore shifted his weight, and Milo’s foot connected with nothing.

The missed kick threw him off balance, and he went down again before Salvatore even touched him.

"Get up."

He got up.

He tried again.

Salvatore blocked the strike at the forearm, and the force of it traveled all the way up into his shoulder, causing him to stumble. The man placed a flat hand on Milo’s chest and pushed him back.

He went down again.

This happened three more times.

Milo was on the floor on all fours, his head hanging down, sweat dripping from his forehead and nose, hitting the floor. His hands were trembling against it.

He could feel his pulse in his jaw where the bruise was. His arms felt as if they had been filled with something heavy.

He looked up at Salvatore.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked. He was asking with his eyes, without words, for a break. Just a minute. Or thirty seconds.

Salvatore looked back at him. "Don’t cry. Get up."

Milo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The hand was shaking. He wiped his nose. He stared at the floor.

He got up.

He threw a punch.

He hit the floor.

He got up.

He blocked and immediately threw a second strike. Salvatore redirected both, spun him around, and knocked him down again.

He got up.

This went on for another ten minutes.

When the ten minutes were up, he’d had enough. He tried to get up from the floor and raised both hands.

"Please, sir." His voice came out rough. "I’m tired. Please."

He pushed against Salvatore’s hands on his back. It wasn’t a strong push. He barely had the strength to make it mean anything. But he pushed.

Salvatore stepped back.

"If I were your enemy," Salvatore said, "I wouldn’t wait for you to rest. You know?"

Milo was on all fours again. He was looking at the floor and breathing in slow, deliberate breaths.

"You said—" He stopped. Breathed. "You said I could cry and be strong when I was ready."

"Yes."

"You said that." Milo looked up at him. His eyes were red. He wasn’t crying, but he was close to it and angry about being so close.

"I did."

"Then give me time—"

"No. Because you have to be ready now." Salvatore reached down and gripped Milo’s arm, pulling him upright. Not roughly, but without asking.

He stood Milo up in front of him and held him there until his legs could support his weight.

Milo looked at him. "Sir..."

Salvatore looked back at him for a second, and something flashed across his face. Not irritation and not coldness, but tenderness.

He turned his attention to Milo’s body.

"Your posture is wrong." He stepped to the side and pressed two fingers between Milo’s shoulder blades. "You’re collapsing here every time you throw. Every time. It makes you slow, and it kills your power."

He moved to the front and adjusted Milo’s left arm at the elbow, pressing it upward. "And you drop this shoulder before every strike. I can read you before you move."

Milo held the corrected position and breathed.

Salvatore looked at his stance for a moment. Then he threw a punch. Slow, deliberate, nowhere near his real speed and strength. He knew where the bruise was.

He had been accounting for it the entire session without saying so. The strike landed against the side of Milo’s ribs at about a quarter of what he was capable of.

It was still enough.

Milo’s legs gave out, and he hit the floor again. He sat there with his hand pressed to his ribs and his head down.

He wanted to cry.

"You are so weak," Salvatore said.

Milo’s head snapped up.

His eyes were wet, his jaw clenched, and he looked at Salvatore with a mix of exhaustion and humiliation.

"Hit me like I’m your enemy," Salvatore said.

Milo looked at him.

He thought about yesterday. The only enemy in his mind was Nero. That name alone gave him goosebumps.

He got up.

His legs were shaking. His shoulder hurt. His ribs hurt. His arms were beyond tired.

He raised his hands.

Salvatore watched him rise, and something in his face shifted again, the same thing as before, just as fleeting. His jaw moved slightly. His eyes scanned Milo’s stance, his face, the way he held himself despite it all.

He said nothing about it.

"Come on then," Salvatore said quietly.

Milo came at him.

He didn’t throw a single punch. He came in low and drove his shoulder into Salvatore’s midsection, using his weight and his legs instead of his arms. He wrapped both arms around him and pushed.

He didn’t budge Salvatore. The man was built like a rock. But he didn’t go down either, and Salvatore didn’t force him to the floor.

They stood there for a moment, Milo’s arms locked around him, both of them motionless.

Then Salvatore placed both hands on Milo’s shoulders and pushed him away. He held Milo at arm’s length and looked at him.

"That," Salvatore said, "like that. It’s better."

Milo was breathing so hard he couldn’t answer.

Salvatore let go of his shoulders.

The man walked to the cabinet and came back with a towel and a bottle of water, holding both out.

Milo took the towel first. He pressed it against his face and stood there with it covering his eyes for a moment. His shoulders dropped. He breathed. Was it over?

He took the water.

Salvatore sat on the edge of the desk and watched him drink. He looked at the bruise on Milo’s jaw, the red marks on his forearms, the way he was favoring his left side.

He hadn’t gone any harder than Milo could handle. He’d stayed gentle the entire session. He knew exactly what he’d done.

Milo lowered the water bottle and looked at the floor.

"Can I be a good guard?" Milo said. His voice was flat.

"Yes." Salvatore motioned for him to walk closer.

Milo obeyed. He walked and stopped right in front of Salvatore.

Salvatore grabbed the bottle and placed it on the desk, looking at Milo seriously, though his expression was now tender.

"You can be anything you want if you’re motivated enough. You’re just trapped in your own mind, believing you’re weak. You have a healthy body, nothing can stop you from becoming strong."

Milo looked down.

Salvatore lifted his chin. "Don’t look down. Keep your eyes up. Keep your shoulders straight. If you feel strong enough, make everyone think you’re strong."

Milo looked at Salvatore. He remembered what Alben had said about the man’s childhood. How could the man be this strong?

Milo flinched when Salvatore gently patted his head.

"Come here," Salvatore said, walking toward the sofa.

Milo walked over to him.

"Tell me, yesterday, did you see anyone with the death mark?"

Milo wasn’t prepared for the question, but he recovered quickly. He tried to remember yesterday. He tried to ignore the nightmare he’d faced with Nero.

"Andro Hartley. And Sean... I saw them looking so pale," Milo replied.

Salvatore furrowed his brow. "Are you sure?"

Milo nodded. "Yes. I don’t know exactly when they’ll die. I can’t see their chests, but it’s definitely soon."

Salvatore fell silent for a moment. He hadn’t expected that.

"Anyone else?"

Milo described an old man with a gray face.

Salvatore nodded. "Brian. I’m sure that’s him. He’s been sick for years. He’s getting another treatment, but I don’t think he’ll make it, if you’re right."

Milo nodded, because he had seen that the man was already sick and using a cane.

"Anyone else?"

Milo shook his head. "I’m sorry. I only saw them. Most of the people in the room, I couldn’t see clearly. I’m sorry..."

Salvatore nodded. "It’s okay. You had a rough day yesterday. It’s good Ramon told me about it, so I could get there in time."

Milo looked at him, he remembered the warmth of his embrace. "Thank you, Sir... again."

"Next time, use your gun properly. It’s not just for show."

Milo swallowed hard. "I wanted to use it, but Sean had already grabbed it."

"It’s still your mistake."

Milo knew.

Salvatore stood up. "Make me some coffee."

Milo nodded. He walked out of the office and brought back a cup of coffee.

Salvatore complained about it again, but this time, Milo brought him ten cups already, smiling.

Salvatore sat in his chair, watching Milo place the cup in front of him. He expected Milo to whine.

"Why are you so happy?"

Milo smiled. "I’ll make you as much coffee as you like. If you want to stay here all day asking me, I’ll stay here."

Salvatore looked at Milo suspiciously.

But Milo really did give him as much coffee as he asked for, until he got bored.

"Are you stupid?"

Milo just smiled. "No. I just like doing it. Do you want some cake too?"

Salvatore laughed dryly. "Unbelievable. Are you trying to challenge me?"

Milo shook his head. "No, truly not. I like serving you. So, ask me for as much as you want. I’m not tired."

Salvatore sighed. "You—"

"I know I should complain and say no. But then that would mean I’m lying to myself. Because I really like giving you coffee."

Salvatore was speechless. He was even more speechless seeing how happy Milo looked. What was wrong with the boy?