The air in the library was heavy, smelling of old leather, fine bourbon, and the quiet despair of a man who had long since surrendered to his own cage.

The bunker was cold, smelling of gun oil and damp concrete. Claire set up a makeshift therapy table.

"I want to try standing," Sebastian demanded, gripping the parallel bars Gabriel had installed that morning.

"You're not ready. Your quadriceps have atrophied. The muscle mass isn't there to support a two-hundred-pound man," Claire warned.

"I don't care. Brace my knees."

Claire sighed, knowing it was useless to argue with a bulldog. She wrapped heavy physical therapy bands around his knees, locking them into a rigid position. She stood directly in front of him, planting her feet.

"Hold onto the bars. Use your lats to pull up, but I want you to try and push down through your heels. Send the signal from your brain to your toes."

Sebastian gripped the steel bars. His massive arms flexed, veins bulging against his tattoos. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled his body upward.

"Push through the heels!" Claire ordered.

Sebastian roared, a sound of pure agony and willpower. His hips lifted off the wheelchair. His legs shook violently, vibrating like plucked guitar strings.

For one second. Two seconds.

Sebastian Lombardi was standing.

He looked down at Claire, who was hovering right in front of him, her hands hovering near his waist to catch him. Their faces were inches apart. He was towering over her, a giant reclaiming his height.

Then, his knees buckled. Claire caught him, the heavy impact driving them both back down into the chair, Claire landing awkwardly across his lap. They were both panting, chests heaving, staring into each other's eyes.