Page 38 of Psycho Pack

The candlelight grows dim as we practice, shadows lengthening around us. But I don't want to stop. This is the longest he's engaged with anyone since arriving.

He taps the page, drawing my attention to a new sign. His hands move through the motion—fingers splayed, then curled inward. The sign for 'brother'.

My throat tightens. "Yes," I say roughly. "Brother."

His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze steadily for the first time. Then his hands move again, deliberately forming the signs we've learned.

Thank you, brother.

The words aren't perfect. The grammar is probably all wrong. But I understand. And for the first time since Father brought this strange, scarred boy home, I feel like maybe?—

No. Not maybe.

IknowI can help him heal.

One sign at a time.

The training dummy'shead snaps back as Wraith's fist connects. His form has improved over the past few days. No wasted movement. Pure, focused power. I circle behind him, studying his technique.

"Good. Now try that combination we worked on."

He nods, settling into a fighting stance. His shoulders roll beneath his shirt, muscles coiling before he unleashes a devastating series of strikes. Left jab, right cross, left hook. The dummy rocks on its base, straw spilling from fresh tears in the canvas.

Father watches from his study window. I can feel his eyes on us, assessing. Judging. But for once, there's no disapproval in his gaze.

Just cold calculation.

"Again," I say. "This time, faster."

Wraith's huge fists blur through the air. The dummy's head caves in, stuffing exploding outward. He steps back, chest heaving, and looks to me for approval.

I can't help but grin. "Well done, brother. Want to try it on a moving target?"

His eyes light up. We've been working toward this. Real sparring. He takes up position across from me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet despite his massive size.

"Remember," I say, raising my hands. "Control. Power without precision is useless."

He nods, then lunges. I slip his first punch, countering with a quick jab to his ribs. He absorbs the blow like it's nothing, already throwing another combination. I block high, duck low, moving in a constant circle to avoid getting trapped against his superior reach and strength.

We trade blows, finding a rhythm. He's learning to harness his raw power, to think tactically instead of just relying on brute force. Pride swells in my chest. He's come so far from the frightened boy hiding in closets.

Then it happens.

My elbow catches the edge of his bandana as I weave past a hook. The fabric tears loose, fluttering to the ground between us. Time slows as I catch my first real glimpse of his face.

The scars are worse than I imagined. Jagged lines of scar tissue where his cheeks should be. Exposed muscle and sinew frame a mouth full of unnaturally sharp teeth bared in a permanent grin. Like something out of a nightmare.

But his intense blue eyes are filled with pure terror.

I open my mouth to tell him it's okay.

That nothing's changed.

But before I can speak, he's on me.

Raw panic drives him now. His strikes come wild and desperate. I barely manage to block a punch that would havetaken my head off. He roars, a sound of pure anguish and rage that freezes the blood in my veins.

"Wraith, stop! It's me!"

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