Dean regretted being born.
This was not poetic exaggeration.
It was, in fact, the cleanest available description of his current state.
Now, standing in the center of the training ring with medical monitors watching his hormone levels like he was a lab-grown pathogen and Arion standing across from him like the human embodiment of institutional regret, Dean felt less like he had made a deal and more like he had sold parts of his soul for a university accommodation.
The air was sterile, stripped raw by industrial filters that hummed overhead with a monotony designed to make violence feel clinical. Embedded sensors sat in the walls and ceiling, tiny red lights blinking as they tracked his vitals, his pheromonal fluctuations, the stress spikes in his muscles, and the changing chemistry of his sweat. Someone behind the glass was probably already taking notes.
Dean hoped they all developed personal problems.
Across the ring, Arion looked insultingly calm.
