“If he grabs my wrist,” she asks, her voice breathless but steady, “what do I do first?”
I study her.
She’s thinking, processing.
“You drop your weight,” I say. “You use gravity, and you aim for the throat.”
She nods and settles into her stance. It’s better this time. Lower. More stable.
She raises the knife.
“Ready,” she says.
We train for an hour.
I run her through the drills until her arms are shaking. Until she’s sweating through the tank top. Until she stops flinching when I lunge at her.
She’s learning and adapting. She’ll never be a soldier, but she’s a survivor.
“Time,” I call out.
She drops her arms and bends over, hands on her knees, gasping for air.
“Good.”
I walk over to the bench and pick up the towel. But instead of handing it to her, I reach for the small bag I brought down and pull out a sheath.
It’s black Kydex, with an ankle strap. Inside is a three-inch fixed blade. Double-edged. Matte black steel.
I walk back to her.
“This stays on you,” I say, holding it out. “Boot. Inside ankle. If you draw it, you commit.”
She looks at the real knife, then takes it.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what? Making you bleed?”
“For showing me how to bleed them.”
In her, I see a change. I see the girl who arranged flowers fading away.
I did that. I took the innocence and forged it into a weapon. I should be proud. It increases her odds of survival. But instead, I feel a sharp pang of loss.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “Save it for when you actually have to use it.”
She nods. Shivering as the adrenaline begins to fade, she scoops the gray sweater off the mat and pulls it quickly over her head.
BOOM.
Thunder cracks directly overhead. A massive, earth-shaking peal that rattles the bag on its chain.
The gym lights flicker, then buzz, slowly dimming to a brownout.
And then the grid dies, swallowing the room in darkness.
“Cassian?” Her voice is small in the dark.
