I don't like patterns.
Patterns get you predictable. Predictable gets you dead.
So when I realize I've been watching Vale move across the room for the third time in under a minute, I stop myself cold.
Discipline. Always discipline.
Vale is grown—fully, unmistakably—old enough to know better than to walk into my territory with grief in her eyes and defiance in her spine. Old enough to be dangerous in the quiet way. That's the excuse I give myself for why I'm paying attention.
An excuse is not the same thing as a lie.
She adjusts her stance the way I corrected earlier. Doesn't look at me while she does it. That's new. Most people need reassurance. Validation.
Vale doesn't.
That bothers me more than it should.
"Eyes up," I snap.
She looks at me immediately. No delay. No apology.
There it is again—that pull low in my gut. Irritation sharp enough to feel like heat.
I turn away before it turns into something else.
This is how it starts, I tell myself. Leniency. Familiarity. Weakness dressed up as control.
I don't do weakness.
Earlier — two nights ago
She'd asked the wrong question.
Not out loud. Vale doesn't push like that. She'd waited until I was cleaning my knives, until the room was quiet enough that words carried weight.
"Why knives?" she asked. Calm. Curious. Not stupid.
I'd paused.
That alone had pissed me off.
"Because they don't jam," I said. "They don't hesitate. They don't miss because someone panicked."
She nodded slowly. Thoughtful.
Then—too softly—
"Someone panicked for you once."
Not a question.
I'd looked up then. Really looked.
Most people flinch when they realize they've stepped on a nerve.
Vale didn't.
I should've shut it down. Put her in her place. Reminded her who I am.
Instead, I said, "Clean that blade again. You missed a spot."
She'd taken it without comment.
No smile. No victory.
Just obedience without submission.
That was when the problem started.
Back in the present, someone laughs too loud near the far wall. One of the Creepers—newer, stupid enough to test the temperature of a room he doesn't understand yet.
His eyes linger on Vale.
Mine don't leave him.
He feels it. Everyone always does.
I don't move toward him. I don't have to.
"Focus," I say, not raising my voice.
Vale does.
The man looks away.
Good.
I hate that my chest loosens after. Hate that I catalog it as relief instead of strategy.
I tell myself it's about efficiency. Vale listens. Vale learns. Vale survives.
I don't tell myself the truth—that when she's standing where I can see her, the room feels… aligned.
That I'm calmer.
That I trust her back to the wall without asking who's behind me.
That's not desire, I insist.
That's control.
And control is mine.
Vale finishes the drill and waits. Doesn't ask if she did well.
I meet her eyes. Hold them longer than necessary.
"Don't mistake my restraint for approval," I say.
Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper.
"I wouldn't dare."
Good answer.
Too good.
I turn away before the rest of them notice the silence stretching between us, before they start asking themselves why Cager—who breaks people for breathing wrong—hasn't raised her voice once.
Before I ask myself why I don't want to.
This ends, I promise myself.
Whatever this is—it ends before it costs me blood.
But as Vale moves past me, close enough that I feel her presence like a held breath, one thought slips through the cracks I pretend aren't there:
If she breaks…
it won't be because I was careless.
It'll be because I wanted to see how far she'd bend.