He thinks I did this. Thinks I'm the cause of my own pain.
I should let him think that. It's easier. Safer.
"Bad workout," I say. The lie tastes like ash.
Bane snorts. "Right. Because you definitely look like someone who works out."
"Fuck you."
The words slip out before I can stop them. Defensive. Automatic.
Bane's eyebrows rise. For a second, I think I've crossed a line. Think he's going to snap back with something cruel, remind me of my place, tear me apart the way he did before.
Instead, the corner of his mouth twitches.
"There it is," he says quietly. Almost to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing." He closes his laptop. Stands. Stretches—arms above his head, back arching, the movement pulling his shirt up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned stomach.
I look away quickly. Too quickly.
"I'm actually going to the gym," Bane says. "Try not to die while I'm gone."
He leaves.
I sit there, yogurt half-finished, trying to process what just happened.
That wasn't... hostile. It wasn't kind, either, but it wasn't the cold cruelty I've come to expect from him.
It was almost normal.
Like I was just a person. Not an intruder. Not a charity case. Just someone eating breakfast at the kitchen island.
I don't know what to make of it.
I finish the yogurt. Rinse the glass. Set it in the dishwasher because I don't know the rules about dishes in this house and I'm not about to give anyone a reason to complain.
My body still hurts, but the food helps. Just barely. Just enough that the world stops tilting every time I move.
I should do something productive. I have Professor Montley's assignment due Wednesday—a short story, five thousand words minimum, and I haven't written a single one. Haven't even thought about a premise. The blank document has been sitting on my laptop for a week, cursor blinking, mocking me.
I grab my backpack from my room—laptop, notebook, the dog-eared copy ofBird by Birdthat Professor Montley recommended at the start of the semester—and head for the library.
It's on the third floor—a room I've only seen once, during Atlas's initial tour. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Leather chairs. The smell of old books and furniture polish.
It feels safe here. Quiet. Removed from everything.
I sink into one of the oversized chairs—carefully,socarefully, hissing at the pressure—and set up my laptop on the side table. The screen glows to life. The blank document stares back at me.
Five thousand words. A story about something real. Something honest.
Professor Montley's voice echoes in my head from last week's lecture.Write what scares you. If it doesn't make you uncomfortable, it's not worth telling.
Everything scares me right now. That's the problem. There's toomuchmaterial.
I start typing. Delete it. Start again. Delete it again.
