Damien stepped into the gym slowly, leaning on the crutch as the door creaked open beside him. The hollow thump of rubber tip against polished floor echoed louder than it should have in the high-ceilinged space. Sunlight still filtered in from the upper windows, casting long slants of amber across the hardwood.
And the moment he entered—
Every head turned.
The after-match chatter died mid-sentence.
A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled to the source of the sound, and there he was. Shirt damp with effort, his right knee wrapped tightly beneath the brace, one hand gripping the crutch like it had always belonged there. He moved with that same stubborn rhythm—deliberate, steady, undeterred.
Even injured, he held his posture with an odd kind of defiance. Not limping out of weakness—but owning the limp.
"Oi—Elford!" someone muttered from the left, surprise riding the name.
