He tried to lift his right arm for the soap. It rose six inches before the shoulder issued a categorical veto and collapsed.
Left arm.
Same treason.
Brilliant.I've trained so hard I can't even wash myself. Peak performance, right here. The dragon rises—straight into basic hygiene failure.
He managed a rudimentary scrub of what he could reach—chest, stomach, thighs—by bending and twisting in ways that would have been mortifying if anyone had borne witness. His back remained a lost continent.
His hair received a cursory rinse.
Good enough for a man who smells like defeat and determination.
The ice pool was ready when he emerged.
Steam rose from his heated skin in thin, defiant curls. The water glowed an unforgiving blue, crushed ice drifting across the surface like the wreckage of some polar expedition. It looked aggressively cold—the kind of cold that harbored grudges.
This is going to suck.
Do it anyway.
