It's the academy's way of acknowledging that we're either too dangerous or too insane to house with the general population.
I qualify on both counts.
Plus, there's the body count.
Fourteen confirmed kills in three years. Maybe fifteen, but that last one gets fuzzy because I was having an episode, and sometimes my brain blacks out the messy parts.
The academy's official policy is "survive or be killed."
Self-defense is not only legal—it's encouraged.Students who can't protect themselves don't make it past the first semester.
I made it past twelve semesters and counting.
That earns you a townhome.
That earns you respect in the fucked-up currency of Ruthless Academy.
That earns you a reputation that makes people either avoid you completely or stupid enough to try their luck.
The giggle bubbles up again, and this time I let it out—quiet, controlled, just a little hiccup of sound that disappears into the darkness.
Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. How many more before I lose count entirely? Before the numbers stop mattering and it's just… routine?
My mother's voice echoes in my memory, soft and sweet and so fucking painful I almost stumble:
"My beautiful girl. My Seraphine. You're going to do such extraordinary things. The world won't know what hit it."
She'd cupped my face in her hands—small hands, delicate, the hands of a woman who arranged flowers and played piano and never expected to die choking on her own blood while her daughter watched from the wings.
"Mama always knew you were special, baby. So, so special."
Special.
What a word.
What a beautiful, poisonous word.
I was special when I landed my firstgrand jetéat age six. Special when I got accepted to pre-professional ballet training. Special when scouts from Juilliard started sniffing around, talking about full scholarships and futures so bright they'd burn.
I'm special now, too.
Just in a different way.
The kind of special that comes with a body count and a reputation for creative violence.
My toe taps against the pavement—tap tap tap tap—four times before I force myself to keep walking. The OCD whispers its endless litany of rules and rituals, the ADHD makes my thoughts bounce like pinballs, and the PTSD ensures that every shadow could be the night my parents died playing on repeat.
It's a party in my head.
Population:too fucking many.
"Do you think—" I start, then stop. Clear my throat. Try again, quieter. "Do you think there's a point where you move on? Like, actually move on, not just pretend you're fine while slowly rotting from the inside out?"
Ro is silent for exactly three seconds. I count them.
One. Two. Three.
Uneven. Wrong. Bad.
