I tried not to think too much.
Tried to push the fear and despair to the edges of my mind.
But before I could fully pull myself back into the present, a flicker of movement caught my eye.
At the far corner of the Crimson Chamber corridor.
Two trainees.
Early twenties.
Built like they had spent their entire lives training for violence—broad shoulders, dense muscle.
They had someone cornered.
Pressed against the wall.
Moving herdeliberately.
Step by step.
Guiding her toward the blind spot.
The one beyond the reach of the nearest CCTV dome.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I moved.
Fast.
Boots barely making a sound against the polished stone as I cut across the corridor at an angle.
Closing distance.
Fast enough to intercept.
Close enough now, I could see clearly who they had surrounded.
The only other woman in the academy.
There were forty-two men here, and only the Spanish girl and I stood apart from them.
The Spanish girl was smaller than me, her frame more delicate, almost fragile against the hard, predatory presence of the men closing in around her.
She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
Dark hair pulled back into a messy braid that had long since lost its structure.
Her uniform hung on her frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal thin wrists—marked.
Scarred.
Old injuries layered over new ones.
Her back pressed flat against the wall.
Shoulders tense.
