The school was bigger than she expected.
Old brick buildings. Ivy-covered walls. Clean air that smelled like pencil shavings and wealth.
Students wore real uniforms here — blazers, polished shoes, lanyards clipped with names that had generations attached to them.
Aara wore her hoodie.
The same one she'd fought Rae's people in.It still smelled like smoke if she breathed deep enough.
She walked across the courtyard slowly.Not cautiously.Just… uncertain.
She knew how to enter a ring.Knew how to enter a fight.
She'd never entered a place where no one expected her to bleed.
The admissions rep — a kind woman with silver glasses and a clipboard — greeted her with a smile too bright to trust.
"Aara! I'm so glad you came in person."
"Just checking it out," Aara said quickly."I didn't agree to anything."
"Of course," the woman replied, as if she hadn't already printed a press release draft titled 'From Fighter to Future Leader.'
She was shown the campus.
The labs.The library.The student café, where a girl in pearls whispered "That's her" when Aara walked past.
Not Ash.
Her.
That was new.
They brought her to the advisory wing, where she met the program lead.
A clean-cut man in his late 30s.Tailored vest. A fountain pen. Too perfect.
He smiled like he'd been rehearsing for her all day.
"Aara, welcome. I read your statement. Powerful stuff."
"I didn't write one."
"Your speech from the Rae League takedown. We edited it into a personal essay."
Her jaw tightened.
"Without asking?"
"We assumed it was part of the package. Don't worry, we attributed it."
"To who?"
"To Ash. It's your most recognizable name—"
"Stop calling me that."
Silence.
Brief.
But sharp.
The man cleared his throat and pushed a folder toward her.
"We believe in your potential. But we're also a traditional institution. There are certain image guidelines. With your history, we just ask for a little flexibility."
She didn't speak.
He went on.
"Public statements need approval. Any media you engage with needs a college liaison. And if you're continuing to train — unofficially, of course — we ask that it not be broadcast."
"So let me get this straight," she said, voice flat."You want me here… but only if I disappear again."
He hesitated.
"It's not about disappearance. It's about rebranding."
That word.
She almost laughed.
Almost.
"You don't want me. You want the headline."
"Aara—"
"No," she snapped, standing now."I came here because for the first time in my life, someone offered me a future I didn't have to kill for."
"And instead, you handed me a prettier cage."
The woman at the door shifted awkwardly.
"We're offering you a path—"
"No. You're offering me a costume."
"It's still a full ride," the man reminded her."This opportunity could change your life."
"It already did," she said, and walked out.
Outside, the sky was dull.
The air didn't feel rich anymore.
Just tight.
Like it knew it had tried to wrap itself around someone who didn't belong.
She didn't go home right away.
Walked three blocks.
Sat on a bench with peeling paint.
Pulled out her phone and stared at it.
At Haru's contact.
No message.
No missed calls.
No emojis or check-ins.
She dialed.
He answered on the first ring.
"Did you go?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"They wanted Ash."
A pause.
"Are you okay?"
She didn't answer.
Because for once, she didn't know.
When she got back, the apartment was quiet.
Haru was on the floor, back against the couch.
TV on, volume low.
Something dumb. A cooking show with angry chefs.
She dropped her bag near the door.
Kicked off her boots.
Walked toward him — and stopped when she saw what was in his hand.
A letter.
Unopened.
With his name on it.
"What's that?"
"A job."
"Where?"
"Busan."
Her chest clenched.
Not with anger.
Not even hurt.
Just that familiar echo of leaving again.
"When did you get it?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He didn't look at her.
Didn't have to.
"Because you weren't supposed to stay."
Silence.
She sat down across from him.
The floor cold beneath her.
"I didn't take the scholarship."
"Why not?"
"Because they didn't want me.They wanted the after version of me."
"And you?"
"I haven't even met her yet."
He nodded once.
Still didn't open the letter.
"If you go," she said softly,"will you be okay without me?"
He looked at her finally.
Eyes soft. Tired. Worn.
"No. But I'll go anyway."
"Why?"
"Because we don't get to live inside fire forever.We either step out of it — or burn with it."
She nodded.
Didn't argue.
Because she knew he was right.
They didn't touch.
Didn't cry.
Just sat there.
On the floor of an apartment that had seen everything.
Two people who'd survived hell.
And were terrified of heaven.
Later that night, she wrote in her journal:
"Freedom is terrifying.You fight so long to win it.Then you realize you don't know how to hold it without cutting yourself."