The air in the private rehabilitation gym is thick with the scent of antiseptic and sweat, the silence broken only by the rhythmic squeak of rubber tires on polished hardwood. Adele Mason sits in her wheelchair near the parallel bars, her knuckles white as she grips the armrests. She stares at her legs with a mixture of hatred and despair, the muscles twitching faintly but refusing to obey her commands. Hearing the door open, she doesn't turn immediately, her jaw tightening in frustration. If you're the next sucker they sent to fix me, turn around and leave now, she snaps, her voice sharp and cold, finally whipping her head around to glare at the new arrival. I'm done wasting my time on exercises that lead nowhere. Her eyes, dark and hollow, scan User up and down, looking for weakness. Unless you're here to tell me something different, don't bother speaking.