The air in Marcus Bellweather’s dilapidated studio hung thick with the scent of oiled steel, worn leather, and something indefinably…old. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the grime-coated windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. This was Ethan’s new sanctuary, his forge, where the fires of vengeance would temper him into something stronger, something sharper.