As Damon held the elixir, he paused, the weight of it feeling oddly familiar in his hand.
The last time he had held one of these, he was back in Stockton, staring at himself in the mirror, trying to make sense of everything.
He turned around now, glancing at the scar running from his shoulder to his lower back, a constant reminder of his past.
He smiled wryly. No one in training had asked him about it.
They didn't need to. Everyone here had their scars, literal or not.
Maybe not all of them had been beaten into their skin by their fathers like his had, but every fighter had a story.
Some of their stories might even be worse than his.
As he looked at his reflection, his thoughts shifted.
As he grew, matured, and stood taller, he noticed his Japanese descent showing through more and more.
It wasn't something people commented on often, but it was there, a part of him he didn't mind.
