Twisted Death

22. Into the Forest

An energetic tune made its way into Brandon's eardrums. Whose phone is that? he wondered, sitting up with a half-closed eye.

The music stopped abruptly. "Sorry, Sir."

Brandon recognized the light, gentle voice. Opening his eye, he twisted his neck to gaze at the speaker. Amid the sheer gray, he saw a blurry mix of tan, brown, and a lot of white. Douglas in his lab coat, no doubt.

"Boss told me to stay the night here," Douglas said, sitting still on the steel bench, "and wake up early in the morning so that I can help you prepare yourself for today."

Prepare yourself for today. Brandon's eye widened, and his vision stabilized. Yes, today he would see what Wong had planned for him. To shoo away the remaining drowsiness, he pressed the buttons on the remote control attached to the side of his bed and turned his sleeping sanctuary into an armchair.

"You're feeling better already?"

Brandon nodded slightly, recalling what happened yesterday. Zach's son. If he hadn't killed Zach, the baby might still have the chance to live. Or perhaps the little boy would have died and then returned as a human; as impossible as Zach's life goal sounded, with the burning passion and love of a father, he might have made it come true.

"Glad to know that." Douglas smiled. "Albert told me that whenever you forgot to take off your prosthesis before sleeping, it meant you got a lot in your mind."

Albert learned it from Mika. Brandon smirked, his gaze falling to the stump of his right leg. Everybody in Millennion would soon learn to read him like an open book because of her, but for sure, none could ever be as special as his little girl. Because her ability feels so natural.

"I bet you miss doing morning workout."

The smile on Brandon's face grew even wider. Now that his lung had healed, he could do hundreds of push-ups and various other workouts at once. He took off his shirt and flung it away.

"Though you probably won't have enough time for everything. Boss needs you in about one and a half hour."

Brandon's big smile melted into a frown. Douglas should've woken him up earlier, but he chose not to argue since it would only waste more of his precious time.

He got up from his armchair and dropped down. With his arm supporting his body like a pillar, he began the push-ups. His heart pounded fast. Beads of sweat dribbled down his body. However, his lungs no longer blazed, which made him clench his teeth in joy.

This is life.

One hundred push-ups later, he balled his hand into a fist. Back when he was still a human, his friends would yell at him for doing knuckle push-ups due to the risk of hurting his hand. Then Brandon would stop the exercise, although he might do it again when nobody was noticing. Now that his hand ran the risk of harming the floor, anybody who warned him about the danger would only earn a glare from him as he went on with the workout.

After two hundred knuckle push-ups, Brandon lay down and rolled to his back. Leg flexed and placed on his armchair, he started the ab crunches. No painful, burning lungs. Just harder, faster heartbeat and more sweat. Sometimes, the moisture would prick his eye and force him to stop for a while.

But it's part of my routine. Scrutinizing his muscular thighs, he reminisced how he gained the body that many men dreamed of.

Necrolyzation serum had increased his height at the start of his undead life and, with the help of a rigorous training regime, given him a ripped physique. He was in peak condition when he died, but the serum chipped away at the last stubborn fat he did not bother to take off simply for vanity's sake. He leaned out while retaining the muscular mass, his body sporting washboard abs, gorgeously shaped delts, hams and calves. Nothing screamed steroids to an onlooker. He was a lean humanoid workhorse, perfectly suited for intimidating some stubborn humans, overpowering the rampaging undead, and caring for a young child.