The barracks were dark. The kind of silence that should've been restful—but wasn't. Not here. Not in this place where silence was just the pause between storms.
Most of the recruits had drifted into uneasy sleep, bodies sprawled across the cold floor, muttering through nightmares. But Luna lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her hands throbbed from torn flesh, her ribs still ached from the wall trial, and her mind… her mind wouldn't let her go.
She pulled her thin blanket tighter, as though it could protect her from thoughts instead of cold.
Trust no one. That voice was sharp, her mother's voice—though maybe it was hers now. A lesson carved into her skin the night she left home. Every person she had reached for since then had burned her. The boy in the alley. The men in the warehouse. Even fate itself.
And yet—
Her chest tightened.
Jax's hand, rough but steady, catching hers on the wall. The quiet look that had said keep climbing, I've got you.
It unsettled her. He unsettled her.
And then there was Kai. His shadow in the dark, his words still lingering: Everyone has a weakness. What's yours?
She shut her eyes. He wanted to break her. She could see it in the way his gaze cut through her like a blade. And the worst part? He wasn't wrong. She did have weaknesses.
The memories clawed at her. The little boy in rags. The alley. The voices. The weight of three men crushing her into silence. The sting of betrayal—by her own choices, by life itself.
Her weakness wasn't physical. It was hope. Every time she hoped in someone, she was destroyed.
A bitter laugh slipped through her lips, too quiet for anyone to hear. How ironic. The thing that had kept her alive this long was the very thing she couldn't afford to carry.
And yet… and yet, when she had been bleeding out, when that strange man had appeared, when he had asked her Do you want to live?—it was hope that made her answer.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her fist against her chest, as though she could crush the ache inside.
She hated this war inside her. The part of her that wanted to stay cold, untouchable. And the other part, small but stubborn, that whispered maybe—just maybe—she could be more than broken pieces.
But what if she wasn't enough?
What if, no matter how far she trained, how many walls she climbed, how many trials she survived, she would always be the girl lying on a cold floor, praying for someone to notice her pain?
Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. She had forgotten how to cry.
Finally, she turned to face the wall, curling into herself like armor. If the others saw her lying small and curled, they might think she was weak. But only she knew the truth.
It wasn't weakness. It was survival.
Still, as sleep finally dragged her under, one thought clung stubbornly to her chest:
I will live. But will I ever be enough?