The rain drummed a relentless, rhythmic beat against the panoramic windows of the suburban house, blurring the world outside into a smudge of grey and green. Inside, the air smelled of cinnamon candles and the faint, metallic tang of the ozone drifting through the vents. Leo sat on the oversized velvet sofa, his broad shoulders hunched, making him look smaller than he actually was. He was twenty, with the physique of a collegiate athlete thick thighs, a chest that strained against his cotton t-shirt, and arms carved from years of disciplined lifting—but his eyes were those of a frightened child.