She snorts, a quick exhale. "Figures. You and your friends probably have a bet on how long I last, seems to be the trend here."
"They think you’ll crack," I say. "I think you’ll outlast most of them."
She considers this, leans against the wall. Her breathing is still rapid, but she hides it well.
"Why are you following me?" she says.
I could lie. I could say the Board wants reports, that I’m just another grunt carrying out orders. But I don’t.
"Because you’re the only thing worth watching," I say.
She huffs, more amused than offended. "You don’t even know me, that’s fucked.You’refucked in the head."
"Everyone here is," I say. "Some of us just hide it better."
She pushes off the wall, muscles still tight, and looks past me to the exit.
"You done stalking me for today?" she says, voice lighter now. Less like a victim, more like a threat.
I nod. "For now."
She heads into the women’s locker room.
I stay behind, debating what I want to do now.
The gym empties out, and I can’t contain my curiosity. I need to know. Need to see what she looks like stripped of her anxious bravado. I count sixty seconds, then walk in. The tiled room is hot with steam, stalls lined up like confessionals.
She's humming. Off-key, but not careless. The sound warps as it bounces off the walls. I pick a bench in the center, sit, lean forward. I wait.
Her bag is on the far hook, everything folded with obsessive precision. A battered towel, cheap shampoo, spare shirt rolled up so tight it could be military. I smell her sweat even through the antiseptic and lavender. It's primal, almost offensive, but enticing at the same time.
The shower cuts out. She sings under her breath, a random song about running away. Then silence. I watch the gaps under the doors, the puddle spreading as she steps out.
She moves like she expects to be alone. Drops the towel, shakes out her hair, dries off slow. I stare, trying not to let my jaw drop, zeroed in on the curve of her spine, the way her scars—small, pale, raised—line her left thigh. Not new, not accidental.
She dries off, rubs her calves hard to force blood back into them. Her hands shake, but she pushes through.
She pulls on her underwear. Plain, white, the elastic stretched. Then the sports bra, which she fumbles with for a full minute. She mutters fuck under her breath, more frustrated than embarrassed.
She’s about to step into her leggings when she freezes. Air changes when you’re being watched. She feels it.
Her head jerks up. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch. She just says, "You have three seconds to get out before I break your fucking nose."
I smirk. She covers her chest out of instinct, but only for a second.
"That’s a generous offer," I say. “Finally noticed me, huh. Got a cute little ass there, Scholarship.”
She glares. "You’re a creep."
I shrug. "That’s not news."
She looks down, sees she’s half-naked, and goes red. Instead of covering up, she finishes pulling on the leggings and stares me down.
"You’re not supposed to be in here," she says.
"I’m not supposed to do a lot of things," I say, closing the distance. "Doesn’t mean I won’t."
She backs up against the locker, palms flat behind her, ready to push off if I get closer.
