Winter sat in the room quietly stewing. He looked down at his wrists. The cuffs sat snugly against his skin—sleek metal, faintly humming. Dampeners. He could feel their suppression like a lead blanket on his chest. He was stronger than most men—faster, sharper, more than he should be—but with these things latched onto him, the world was mud and iron. Still, even now… he could feel the quiet power beneath. Slumbering, but not gone.
His knuckles were raw, skin split over scar tissue and dried blood. Bruises bloomed like poisonous flowers across his ribs, his jaw, his left eye. He welcomed the pain. It kept him present. Reminded him he was still alive. Still dangerous.
They thought the cuffs would keep him docile. Inhibitors—they pulsed faintly around his wrists, nullifying the core of what made him terrifying. But they'd underestimated how much damage he could still do with just teeth, fists, and fury.
