On day seven we gathered in the living room at the end of another grueling day with our bodies strewn across couches and chairs like casualties on a battlefield. The setting sun cast long golden beams through the dust-speckled windows and turned the room into a strange tableau of exhausted youth.
Every one of us wore the badge of Braxton's training in some form, whether it was bruises in various shades of purple and yellow, scrapes that had scabbed over, or simply the thousand-yard stare of people who'd been pushed past their limits.
Raphael sprawled on the couch with his muscular frame taking up more space than necessary, an ice pack pressed against his shoulder where Braxton had "demonstrated" a joint lock that had the bone creaking. His face was a mask of barely controlled pain and fury that he tried to hide behind closed eyes.
