Inside, Saeles's mother returned unexpectedly, her heels echoing sharply. She examined her daughter like one would a delicate, defective object, noting every flaw, every hesitation, every imperfection.
"You're slow," she snapped. "Do you want to be nothing? Do you think all these years of training have been wasted? Weakness will destroy you!"
Saeles struck the bag harder, fists raw and bleeding, but something had shifted inside her. Her mother's words were no longer just commands—they were seeds, twisting in her mind, shaping her perception of herself. Pain, obedience, and perfection had fused into a dangerous, all-consuming need to survive and endure.
Her movements grew faster, sharper, more violent. Every strike was laced with fear, rage, and a desire to prove herself. The violence she endured was no longer just physical—it was psychological, molding her into something colder, sharper, and more detached.