She still woke up screaming.
The dream never changed.
Rough hands.The smell of rust and damp concrete.The sound of fists hitting flesh—again and again—until the screams in her throat turned into helpless sobs.
Her eyes flew open.
The ceiling above her room at the academy was dark, silent, peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Her breath came in shallow gasps as she pressed a hand against her mouth, forcing the scream back down before it could escape. Her body trembled violently, sweat soaking through her clothes despite the cool night air.
It took several seconds before she realized—
She was safe.
Her hands were free.Her mouth was not covered.No ropes bit into her skin.
Yet her heart refused to believe it.
She curled inward, hugging her knees, nails digging into her arms as if pain were the only thing that could anchor her to the present.
Ryan.
The image of him lying on the ground, bloodied and unmoving, burned behind her closed eyes.
She had watched it happen.
Powerless.
The guilt gnawed at her relentlessly.
If she had been stronger.If she had noticed sooner.If she hadn't been so careless.
She swallowed hard, tears spilling freely now.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the darkness."I'm so sorry."
Morning arrived without warmth.
She forced herself out of bed, legs weak, heart heavy. Every hallway felt too long, every echo too loud. The academy buzzed with quiet activity, yet she moved through it like a ghost, unseen and unspoken to.
People looked at her differently now.
Pity.
Fear.
And something else—distance.
She understood why.
She had been the one taken.
The reason everything had changed.
At least, that was how it felt to her.
When she finally saw Ryan across the courtyard, her steps faltered.
He stood alone.
Still.Composed.Unreachable.
Something about him was wrong—not in a way that could be named, but in a way that hurt.
She wanted to run to him.To ask if he was okay.To apologize again and again until the weight in her chest eased.
But her feet would not move.
The Ryan she remembered would have noticed her immediately.
This Ryan did not.
The realization cut deeper than she expected.
That night, she sat alone in her room, hands shaking as she stared at her reflection.
Her eyes looked older.
Hollow.
She clenched her fists.
"I can't stay like this," she whispered.
Fear had already taken enough from her.
It had stolen her sleep.Her confidence.Her voice.
She would not let it take more.
Slowly, painfully, she stood.
The decision did not feel brave.
It felt necessary.
She remembered the moment she had watched Ryan get beaten, the helplessness tearing her apart as she could do nothing but cry.
Never again.
If she could not fight—She would endure.
If she could not protect—She would prepare.
She wiped her tears and straightened her back.
"I'll get stronger," she said quietly."In my own way."
Days passed.
She began to train—not in the open halls, not where others could see, but in quiet corners, in forgotten rooms where no one asked questions.
Her body protested.
Her hands blistered.Her muscles screamed.Her fear resurfaced again and again.
But she did not stop.
Each drop of sweat was a defiance.Each ache a reminder that she was still alive.
Sometimes, when exhaustion overtook her, she thought of Ryan.
Of his back as he walked ahead, carrying burdens he never spoke of.
She didn't know it yet—
But the path she was carving for herself, guided by trauma and resolve, would one day place her in the exact position needed to save him when even his strength would not be enough.
One evening, as she left the training room, a shadow watched from the corridor's edge.
Unnoticed.
Interested.
The girl shivered, unaware of the invisible thread tightening around her fate.
Some wounds bled quietly.
Some scars never faded.
And some decisions, born of pain, reshaped the future in ways no one could foresee.