The elevator ride up to Floor 98 took approximately forty-seven years.

Or perhaps ninety seconds. Hard to tell when every muscle fiber in his body was staging a coordinated revolt against the very concept of continued existence.

Phei leaned against the glass wall, watching Downtown Paradise shrink beneath him without truly seeing it.

His legs trembled like overcooked noodles. His arms hung at his sides like useless appendages borrowed from a corpse. His core—whatever pitiful remnant remained after those Russian twists—felt as though someone had taken a cheese grater to it and then salted the wounds for good measure.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost—

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open directly into his condo.

He shuffled inside, each step a grudging negotiation between his brain and his mutinous limbs.

Living room. Spiral staircase. Second floor. Third floor.

By the time he reached the master bedroom, he was genuinely contemplating collapse on the marble floor and sleeping there like a discarded marionette. The bed looked a thousand miles away. The bathroom might as well have been on another continent.

But he smelled like a gym locker had fucked a swamp and lost.

Shower. I need a shower. Or a bath. Or to be hosed down like a farm animal. Anything.

Phei pushed through the seamless pocket door into the master bathroom—

And stopped.

The master bathroom was no mere room—it was a private cathedral of indulgence, vast and unapologetic, carved from marble and shadow and engineered light. The space sprawled like a secret wing of the condo, hidden behind that seamless pocket door, accessible only from the bedroom.

One step inside and the city view struck first: an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass framing Downtown Paradise at night, the lights glittering like spilled jewels against black velvet. No curtains. No compromise.

Just raw exposure, huh.

The palette was deliberate: cool whites veined in silver and charcoal, accented by matte black fixtures and hidden LED strips that shifted color on command.

Tonight, the lighting was a deep, electric blue—rim lighting along the ceiling coves, under the floating vanity, behind the mirrors—turning the marble into something almost glacial, otherworldly.

At the heart of the far wall stood the freestanding soaking tub, oversized and sculpted from a single block of white resin composite, its curves sensual and predatory.

A black matte faucet arched over it like a swan's neck, ready to pour steaming water at a whisper.

Beside it, recessed into the floor and flush with the marble, lay the true extravagance: a sunken soaking pool, eight feet across and deep enough to submerge to the chest.

The pool was clad in the same veined marble, its edges softened and glowing from beneath.

A control panel—sleek, touchscreen, hidden in the wall—allowed the water to be set to any temperature: steaming hot, perfectly neutral, refreshingly cool, or full ice plunge, the system capable of dropping crushed ice rocks directly into the water until it became a churning arctic bath.

Jets lined the sides for massage. Underwater lighting shifted from warm amber to icy blue. It was built for recovery, for punishment, for pleasure.

To the left, a double vanity floated against the mirrored wall, backlit mirrors framed in black steel, each sink a sculpted vessel of white porcelain.

Hidden drawers held everything in obsessive order. Above, a circular skylight with tunable glass let in natural light by day or turned opaque for privacy.

The shower dominated the opposite corner: a walk-in cavern of black-framed glass, multiple rainfall heads, body jets, and a built-in bench of dark marble. Steam functions. Chromotherapy lights. The floor sloped imperceptibly to a linear drain, all seamless.

A separate, fully enclosed water closet tucked discreetly behind a frosted glass door. Heated floors throughout. Towel warmers in matte black. A sound system embedded in the ceiling, capable of anything from silence to thunder.

Plants—tall, lush monstera and fiddle-leaf figs in black ceramic pots—softened the edges, their leaves catching the blue light like living sculptures.

The entire space smelled faintly of cedar and eucalyptus from the hidden diffusers.

This wasn't a bathroom.

This was a sanctuary. A war room for the body. A place to drown the day, to punish weakness, to reward conquest.

Phei stood at the threshold, city lights at his back, the blue glow washing over him.

Fucking hell, Melissa, you really are the best!

He limped toward the sunken pool, legs screaming, and tapped the control panel.

Options populated the screen. Water temperature. Jet intensity. Lighting. And—

Ice plunge.

He stared at that option for a long moment.

Ice baths.

He had read about them during those late-night descents into training lore—professional athletes swearing by the ritual like zealots at an altar.

The cold constricted vessels, curbed inflammation, flushed lactic acid from ravaged muscle. It promised faster recovery, dulled soreness, coaxed the body back from the brink of the punishment he had just inflicted upon himself.

It was also supposed to feel like dying.

Perfect.

He tapped the option. Set the temperature to 50°F. Watched the system hum to life, water surging into the pool while a separate mechanism ground and spilled crushed ice across the surface like a slow-motion avalanche.

While it filled, Phei attempted to undress.

Attempted being the operative word.

His arms refused to rise above shoulder height without staging a full mutiny. Fingers fumbled buttons like they had forgotten their purpose in life.

Removing the shirt became a humiliating exercise in contortion—grabbing the hem and yanking it overhead with a motion that made his lats howl in betrayal.

The shorts were easier. Gravity, at least, remained an ally.

He caught his reflection in the vast backlit mirror—naked, slick with sweat, flushed crimson, looking like a man who had barely survived a private war.

Shower first. Can't marinate in my own filth.

The walk-in shower was its own cavern of excess—black-framed glass, rainfall heads cascading like judgment from above, body jets poised to punish or absolve. He turned it on, stepped beneath the deluge, and simply... endured.

Hot water poured over him. Not cleansing, not yet. Just heat against exhaustion.

His arms hung at his sides like useless ballast.

Okay. This might be a problem.

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