Lia woke up with a pounding headache and the sour taste of last night's vodka still clinging to her tongue—guilt in liquid form. Her stomach churned, the blanket felt suffocating, and the light seeping through the narrow window was too damn bright.

  Squinting against the dawn, she felt like she'd already lived a lifetime in the few hours she'd been unconscious. Too many words spilled. And Ezra... damn. The details were hazy, but the weight of her actions pressed down on her like a fog before everything went black.

  The cool floor met her bare feet as she peeled herself out of bed, shedding the night like a snake discarding its old skin. The room was eerily silent. No sarcastic remarks from Ezra, no familiar chaos. Just the sound of her footsteps, the soft creak of the floorboards, and the unsettling sensation of unseen eyes watching—an echo from the shadows of the night.

  In the common room, an unnatural stillness hung in the air despite the few occupants. The table was set too neatly, almost staged. Someone had put in effort without making it obvious. Two plates, bread, tea, and a few sliced fruits. Ezra sat there, casually flipping through a newspaper as if everything was perfectly normal. As if she hadn't collapsed drunk in front of him, clinging to his shirt like it was her last anchor.

  He looked up, eyes scanning her briefly before that infuriating grin spread across his face. "Morning, Captain Hangover. Slept well?"

  She dropped into the seat across from him, grabbing the tea without a word. Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.

  Ezra slid a bowl of apple slices toward her. "You were quite chatty last night. Not that I was eavesdropping, but your drunk slang was quite captivating."

  She shot him a withering look. "Next time, I can puke on your shoes if you'd prefer."

  He chuckled an almost genuine sound.

  But the silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken words. Then she noticed the others at the table. They were too quiet, barely touching their food. One stared at her as if seeing through her; another avoided her gaze entirely as if she carried some contagious disease. She knew that look all too well.

  Her vision blurred, and suddenly—she was five years old again.

  Standing in the shadow of a vending machine. Her mother's hand was warm, her nails painted a vibrant red, her smile a sanctuary. The sun blazed, a harmless summer day—or so it seemed. But then came that feeling. The cold. The whisper.

  "Don't go in there."

  The words materialized from nowhere, heavy and inescapable.

  "Mom, don't."

  But her mother didn't hear. Or chose not to. She walked on. The bank doors closed behind her.

  Then the scary darkness.

  A shot. Two.

  And Lia, outside, arm outstretched as if she could halt time, rewind it, do anything but stand there powerless.

  Later, they called it a coincidence. Said she was an observant child. That she had a hunch.

  But she knew better.

  Because it wasn't the first time.

  Just the first time it had killed someone.

  "Your tea's getting cold," Ezra's voice cut through, jolting her back to the present.

  She sipped, the bitter heat grounding her. Her hands clutched the cup as if it were a lifeline.

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  "What's up with them?" she murmured, nodding toward the others. "Do I look that scary?"

  Ezra shrugged. "A bit. You were mumbling about dead mothers in your sleep last night. Ruined my collar, by the way."

  She fell silent.

  Suddenly she could hear voices from upstairs.

  She recognized Maliel's tone instantly. Sharp, cold, like a dagger and another voice—deeper, aggressive, barely human.

  "She's unstable. You know that."

  "She's more than that," Maliel replied. "She's dangerous. And Ezrael...."

  "You know what happens then."

  The voices faded as the door closed.

  Lia stood, drawn by an inexplicable force. Defiance? Pain? Or just the urge to hurt someone—even if it was herself.

  Moments later, she stepped onto the training ground, barefoot and resolute, and tugged her hoodie sleeves down, covering her knuckles.

  The sky was in the lightest blue possible, almost peaceful but vain. Maliel stood before her, statuesque and unyielding. Two sticks in hand, his gaze a silent judgment.

  His eyes tracked her—slow, calculating. Like he'd already seen how this ended and was just waiting for the rest to catch up.

  He tossed a stick at her feet. "Pick it up."

  Lia stared him down. "Don't you dare hit me with that shit?"

  He just stood there, calm and carved like an ice statue.

  So she struck first. Fast. Unpolished. All instinct and rage. Her swing was too wide, her stance too open but it was real. It wasn't about form. It was about fury.

  Maliel dodged, easily. Like she was in slow motion and he was already two steps ahead.

  "Sloppy," he said, parrying another strike. "You fight like someone who wants to lose."

  "I don't have anything left to lose," she spat.

  He caught her leg mid-kick and spun her just enough to disorient, not enough to hurt. Because that would've meant effort. And she didn't even earn that.

  Humiliation burned hotter than pain.

  She gritted her teeth and lifted the stick again. "What's your deal, huh? You can just talk about girls behind closed doors?"

  He stepped in too close. "I think you're reckless. And that makes you stupid."

  The air between them crackled. Not lust, not hate with the raw potential for destruction. Like a wire stripped bare.

  "You're scared," she said, voice low and sharp. "Not of me. Of what I might become. All of you are."

  His eye twitched. Barely. But she saw it.

  "Control is what separates monsters from soldiers."

  "And you think you're the expert?"

  "No. I'm the proof."

  That stopped her for half a second. And he saw it. Pounced on it.

  She laughed—a short and hollow sound. She swung again. Missed again. Threw the stick at his chest. It bounced off him like it meant nothing.

  "Done?" he asked. She didn't answer.

  He turned and walked away like she hadn't even been there.

  And just like that, the adrenaline crashed. She stood alone, chest heaving, fists clenched, barefoot in the dirt with blood screaming under her skin.

  She hadn't been fighting him. Not really.

  She'd been trying to beat the thing inside her. And the worst part? He was right. About all of it.

  She stormed back and dropped herself onto the bench by the window like she'd been thrown there. Ezra was already sprawled in his usual spot, half-eaten apple in hand, no care in the world.

  He raised an eyebrow. "So. Good talk?"

  She ripped a leaf out of her hair. He plucked it from her fingers and let it float to the floor.

  "I hate him," she muttered.

  Ezra grinned. "Who, me? Or Ice Prince Mal?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I get it. Sometimes I wanna knock him on his ass too. Difference is, I value my spine."

  She turned her head, and let her forehead drop to her knees. Everything inside her still shook. Like her nerves hadn't figured out the fight was over.

  "He hates me."

  Ezra tilted his head. "Nah. Hate takes effort. Maliel's more of a... 'quiet loathing' type. Real poetic."

  She laughed, a bitter puff of air. "You're not helping."

  "I'm not trying to."

  She looked up at him. His expression wasn't deep. It wasn't soft. But it was honest. And somehow, that was worse.

  "I feel like I'm the only broken thing here."

  Ezra sat up, mock-offended. "Oh no, no, no. Everyone here is broken. You're just the only one who doesn't bother to hide it."

  She met his gaze this time. For real. No mask. No flinch.

  He smiled. Not cocky. Not fake. Just... real.

  "You got something in your forehead," he said, brushing a strand of hair away like it wasn't a big deal. But her skin lit up like static under his touch.

  She blinked.

  "I don't know if I can do this," she said quietly.

  "What, the whole convent thing or... this heart-to-heart?"

  "Both."

  Ezra squinted up as the sky owed him answers.

  "Welcome to the club."

  Lia pulled her hoodie over her mouth and stared at the still field. But inside her, it was anything but.

  The fight hadn't ended. It had just changed shape.

  And next time? She wasn't going to miss.