The sound of arrows striking the target board echoed in the air one by one as if there was no slowing down.
As each sweats drip down from Pacey's chin, she became even more focused. Still hanged onto what happened the last couple of days, Pacey couldn't put her arms down.
She hesitated.
Never in her life had she hesitated—but in that second, she did.
"That's enough for today, Pacey, don't you think?" Eula said, lifting her flask and taking a slow sip of water.
Pacey released one final arrow. It buried itself deep in the board, splitting old wood already scarred beyond recognition. A dark bloodstain bloomed through the leather of her glove, soaking into the fibers.
She glanced toward Eula, who was studying the target. The board looked tired—layers of splintered wood, feather shafts snapped and embedded like torn out stitches.
Pacey walked forward in silence, pulling each arrow free slowly.
Eula had been the only one who didn't freeze that day.
Unlike Pacey.
The memory clawed its way back—her body locked in place, seconds stretching into something unbearable. Those seconds had been critical. Had she not heard her name called, she would have remained frozen. Useless.
"Anyone would've been scared if they were in our position, Pacey," Eula said quietly, tugging an arrow loose.
"Anyone could," Pacey replied, her voice tight. "But that anyone shouldn't have been me."
"You can't be perfect forever."
Pacey knew that. She did.But knowing and accepting were two very different things.
Perfection was how she survived. If everything was flawless, then no cracks could form. No weaknesses could be seen. No one could exploit them. That was how she was raised. That was how she stayed alive.
Without another word, Pacey returned to her mark and raised her bow again.
Laura placed a hand on Eula's shoulder, watching from the edge of the grounds. "I've been observing her all morning. She's… very determined." She hesitated. "Ever since we got back from that terminal, she's been oddly off."
Eula exhaled. "Is your body still sore?"
Laura smiled faintly. "You remembered?"
Eula reached into her pack and handed over a small metal tin. "Apply it tonight. It'll help."
Laura nodded and followed Eula back toward the lobby, their footsteps fading into the distance.
Only then did Pacey allow herself to breathe.
Her shoulders sagged, just slightly.
It wasn't that she didn't want to stop. It was that her mind wouldn't let her. Even the smallest crack—a pause, a doubt—could ruin everything.
She couldn't afford that.
--
Afia sat silently in the living room, the low hum of electricity and distant footsteps blending into a dull background noise. The events from the last mission lingered at the edge of her thoughts—too fresh to forget, too exhausting to dwell on. So she didn't think much of it. Thinking never helped anyway.
The voices, as always, murmured softly beneath everything else.
Then the air shifted.
A familiar presence slipped into place directly in front of her, gentle but unmistakable. Afia stiffened before she even looked up.
She sighed and pulled her headphones off.
"Grandpa," she said flatly. "Next time, let me know in advance. This isn't home—you can't just appear randomly like that." She stood, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. "And being away from home weakens your spirit. Please head back."
Her grandfather chuckled, the sound warm and faint, like an old recording played too many times. "Dear, worry not. I was only curious about what you've been up to these past few days. Your parents miss you. I miss you too."
Afia scoffed. "Lies. My parents were never home. They probably still haven't figured out I'm gone."
He lowered himself onto the couch, movements slower than she remembered—lighter somehow, like he was fighting not to drift apart. "That isn't true," he said gently. "Your parents love you."
"Yeah," Afia muttered. "Sure, grandpa…"
He smiled at her anyway. The same smile he'd worn when she was small, when the voices had first begun and she'd cried into his sleeve, begging him to make them stop.
"I'm glad you're doing well," he said.
Afia's chest tightened.
She turned back to respond—to argue, to tell him not to worry, to tell him she was fine—but the couch was empty.
The air felt colder.
He was already gone.
Afia stood there for a long moment, headphones dangling loosely from her fingers.
It wasn't that she didn't want him here.
It was that she could feel it now—how thin his presence had been, how fragile his spirit felt every time he appeared. Like a candle burning too close to the end of its wick. If only she'd realized sooner. If only she'd understood what was happening before it started.
Maybe then he wouldn't be suffering like this.
She sank back onto the couch, staring at the blank wall ahead of her.
Ever since she arrived here, everything had been about training. Arwan's schedules. Arwan's rules.
There was never time to search for answers.
Never time to ask the questions that actually mattered.
And Rayen—
Rayen would never spill anything carelessly.
Afia knew that better than anyone.
So all she could do was wait.
She slipped her headphones back on, letting the familiar weight press against her ears. The voices dulled—not gone, never gone—but distant enough to breathe through.
She let out a slow sigh.
Saving the world?
Afia wasn't a hero.
She wasn't here because she believed in destiny or balance or some grand responsibility between worlds.
She was here because she had no choice.
Just as Afia began to settle into the silence, the sound of approaching footsteps broke through.
Laura and Eula emerged from the corridor.
"Hey, Afia," Laura said lightly. "We're heading out for lunch. Want to come with us?"
Afia shook her head.
"Come on," Laura groaned. "Don't be like Pacey and waste your time sulking around here."
Afia didn't respond. She stood, slipped her headphones back on, and headed upstairs without a word.
Moments later, she found herself by the training track.
Pacey was still there—shooting arrows relentlessly.
Pacey was a strange one.
Afia had expected her to be exactly what she looked like at first glance—a spoiled, rich white girl. Confident. Polished. Someone who had never been forced to confront the world's uglier corners.
But watching her now, Afia realized how wrong her assumption was.
Pacey wasn't normal—but then again, none of them were. They were all freaks in their own way. Marked. Shunned.
Pacey sensed her presence and lowered her bow.
"Did I disturb you?" Afia asked, taking a seat on the bench nearby.
Pacey bristled. "What? You think I'm overdoing it too?"
"No," Afia said simply. "Keep shooting."
Pacey hesitated, then exhaled sharply and walked over instead, sitting beside her. She lifted her water bottle and took a long drink.
"You're not going with Eula and Laura?" Pacey asked.
"You've calmed down," Afia replied.
Pacey frowned. "What?"
"I could hear your heartbeat pounding all morning," Afia said dryly. "It finally slowed. That's why I have eye bags."
Pacey sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize your hearing was that—"
"Sensitive?" Afia finished. "Yeah. That's why I wear earplugs to sleep. Though they barely help."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Afia's gaze drifted to Pacey's glove—darkened with dried blood.
"You know," Afia said quietly, "there was a time I played music for so long my eyes and nose started bleeding."
Pacey turned to her, startled.
"I was seven," Afia continued. "That was when my hearing became… unstable. I could hear everyone. Everywhere. Voices overlapping, screaming, whispering. I couldn't sleep for days. My parents took me to doctors—every test came back normal. They thought I was crazy or simply acting up, you know— typical kid wanting attention."
She gave a short, humorless laugh. "So they bought me earplugs and left me alone in the house. All by myself, there was no adult or beings you could say"
Pacey didn't interrupt.
"There was nothing but noices only I could hear," Afia said. "One day, out of curiosity, I broke into my grandmother's room. It had been locked for as long as I could remember. Inside, I found a violin."
Her fingers twitched slightly, as if remembering the weight of it.
"When I played it, my hands moved on their own. The noise disappeared. Everything did—except the music. I played for three days. Two nights. I couldn't stop. It was like being trapped inside a loop."
Pacey's brow furrowed.
"My grandpa pulled me out," Afia said softly. "That was the first time I ever saw him. Before that, I only knew him from photos."
Pacey exhaled slowly. "Why are you telling me this?"
Afia finally met her eyes.
"Because you think freezing makes you weak," she said. "And because you're trying to punish yourself for it."
Pacey stiffened.
"You didn't choose the hesitation."
She gestured lightly toward Pacey's glove, the arrows, the empty track.
"You're trying to drown it out with motion."
Afia leaned back against the bench.
"It's not about being perfect," she said. "It's about knowing when to stop before you break—and trusting that hesitating once doesn't erase everything else you are."
The wind passed between them.
"I'm not telling you to stop Pacey," Afia added quietly. "Just remember to know when enough is enough"