when we were BROKEN

Warehouse, Patagonia

Hard, steady thumps drew Geneviève down one of the various hallways in the living section of the warehouse. Slowly peering around corners as she got closer to the source of the noise. In the training room, full of what looked like torture equipment, Ji had his back to her, the white tank he wore plastered to his back with sweat. The snake on his shoulder glistened like a faceted jewel. Long, golden hair tied in a messy bundle, his focus was on a large sack hanging from the ceiling in front of him. As she watched, his arms lifted, revealing white tape wrapped firmly around his hands and wrists.

Laser focus was on the swinging bag, his entire body coiled like a spring, waiting to explode. Hugging the doorframe, Geneviève watched in silence as he lashed out with his right fist, the bag shuddering with the impact. In the space of a blink, three more punches landed, right, right, left, the jarring force making the bag gyrate on the squeaky chain. He didn't seem satisfied, tension boiling up inside until he began to lash out with his feet.

Heavy, dull thuds filled the room as he took out his inner demons on a silent victim. Whipping around, he caught the canvass sack with a roundhouse kick, the force snapping the metal hook holding the huge sack above the floor. The bag hit the floor with a thunk six feet away but Geneviève wasn't looking at it. Her eyes were riveted to hard turquoise ones. Frozen in place, Ji held himself still, leg up and extended, foot pointed, elbows bent and tight against his body, chin tucked in.

Perfect. A machine bred and trained for combat. The epitome of the male sex. The aching joint of his knee didn't show. Neither did the sore muscles from the beating he'd taken or the deadly ride down the river from several days ago.

Alert and sharp, his gaze stayed on her as Geneviève timidly approached, nibbling on her bottom lip. His scent hung in the air. Distinctly male, a heavy, heady musk underlaid with nicotine and sweat. Unique to him.

As she came nearer, he smoothly lowered his foot, shifting his stance to a relaxed one. A guise. Her quick eyes picked out the way he was watching her from the corner of his eye, the stiffness in his hands and shoulders.

"I've never seen anyone do that before," she muttered to no one, not certain if he'd answer her. Ji's eyes hooded slightly as he began to fiddle with the tape on his hands.

"It's just a workout, Mouse. Anyone could do it, given the desire and training."

"I meant, with the big bag," dark eyes met his shyly before flicking away. "I've never seen anyone do that to one...before."

"Watched a lot of men work out, have you?" His grin was placating, but her gaze stayed on his face as she nodded. Ji paused, studying her features in earnest. "Where?"

"Non," turning away, Geneviève shook her head. "I will not tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because..." her gaunt features caught the shadows in the room, giving her a haunted appearance. "I am afraid."

Ji paused, lifting his gaze to meet hers. Fear lived behind everything she felt, said, or did. It made him unaccountably angry, although he wasn't necessarily upset with her. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the bench press bar.

"Of what?"

"Dying."

"Everyone dies," he watched her expression shift. "Fear of death is normal."

"What about... how you die," wandering to the chin-up bar, her fingers lightly ran across the polished surface above her head. "Is fearing that normal too?"

"Sure,"

When she wrapped her hands over the high bar, he moved a little nearer, watching as she flexed unused and bruised muscles to test her strength.