Early morning.
In the small utility room on the second floor of the townhouse at No. 25 Red Rose Street, the rhythmic sound of labored breathing echoed in the confined space.
"One thousand five hundred fifty-six... one thousand five hundred fifty-seven…"
Raymond's voice carried through the air as his sweat-drenched body moved steadily up and down. His palms pressed against the wooden floor, which was now slick and darkened by the sheer volume of sweat he had poured into his morning routine.
The past two days had been a whirlwind since he registered as an adventurer. He could still vividly recall the scene when he returned home that fateful evening.
Arya, arms crossed and her glare sharp enough to pierce steel, had confronted him the moment he walked through the door.
"Not only did you not make a single coin," she'd snapped, her tone laced with frustration, "but you 'lost' money? And you came back injured?"