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Ryker was at his home. He did not attend university today because his friends had planned to go somewhere together.

Sitting on the floor, resting on the edge of the bed, he threw the ball to the wall, which returned to him the next moment. He wore a sleeveless black t-shirt. Whenever he moved his hand, his muscles moved with it.

"Ryker, you—"

His mother, Rosalind Maddox, paused at the door.