Pain was not the worst part.
Ivan learned that early.
Pain could be measured. Endured. Conquered. What nearly destroyed him was the waiting — the long, suffocating pauses between commands, the way eyes followed him even when no one spoke, the constant expectation that he would fail.
He woke from the nightmare with his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
The room was dark, cold marble under bare feet when he swung himself out of bed. For a moment, he didn't recognize where he was — not the narrow apartment, not the cracked ceiling. This place was silent in a way that meant money, meant power. The kind of silence bought with fear.
Ivan dragged a hand down his face and breathed slowly.
In the dream, he was back in the training hall.
No mirrors. No windows. Just concrete walls and men who did not care if he lived as long as he endured. His body had been pushed beyond mercy — calisthenics until his arms shook uncontrollably, planks weighted with iron, pull-ups until his vision blurred. When he collapsed, they dragged him upright.
"Again."
The word still echoed.
The injections came next in the dream — thick syringes sliding into muscle, into veins. Hormones. Suppressants. Accelerants. They burned going in, left him feverish and shaking for days. He remembered retching into a bucket, skin slick with sweat, bones aching as if they were being rearranged from the inside.
"Necessary," they told him.
"Temporary."
Lies.
Ivan crossed the room and stopped before the mirror.
Nikolo allowed mirrors now.
The man staring back was unfamiliar and unavoidable — broad shoulders, defined arms, a torso sculpted into something hard and unforgiving. His chest was bound tightly beneath the thin fabric of his sleep shirt, ribs rising and falling with controlled breaths. His face was sharper than he remembered owning — cheekbones like cut glass, lips that rarely softened, eyes that had learned how to kill a conversation with a glance.
Masculinity had been drilled into him like a creed.
Stand wider.
Lower your voice.
Don't apologize.
Never flinch.
He had learned. Too well.
Yet sometimes — usually at night — Janice clawed her way back.
In the dream, she screamed at the mirror. Pounded against it until her palms bled, until the reflection cracked. Until the stranger stared back and smiled.
Ivan looked away now.
Nikolo hadn't acknowledged him at first. That had been the cruelty of it.
Useful, yes. Watched, always. Corrected more than the others. Pushed harder. Nikolo's gaze lingered too long on Ivan's face — not evaluating strength, but resemblance. A ghost comparison Ivan could never escape.
Every failure felt personal.
Tonight would not be another failure.
Ivan dressed carefully, pulling on black trousers, a fitted shirt, binding his chest with practiced precision. The process was methodical — ritualistic. Control was everything.
As he stepped into the corridor, the weight of the estate closed around him. Violence lived behind these walls. Loyalty was tested nightly. Weakness did not survive.
Ivan walked anyway.
Because whatever Janice had been, Ivan would become something worse.
Something inevitable.