Zethan stood under the shower, the water cascading over his silver hair, trailing down his neck and over his well-defined abs. It flowed along the sculpted lines of his back, revealing the perfection of his form.
He had been standing there for nearly an hour—the blood that once stained his body now long gone, replaced by clean skin.
The tiles that had soaked up the red water were white again. Still, he remained motionless—fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes closed—as his hands pressed against the wall, which seemed to be cracked from the force of his fist.
Slowly, he ran his hands back through his wet hair. The cold water offered no relief; the tension in his skin remained, unbroken.
