The sun rose high over the academy courtyard, casting faint, sharp shadows across the training field. The rhythmic thud of fists meeting padded dummies echoed through the crisp air as recruits pushed themselves past exhaustion. Elena and Scarlett arrived, both silent at first, their boots crunching against the gravel.
Scarlett's eyes swept the grounds, landing on Max and his usual group — a pack of arrogant smirks and restless energy. Bob the Blob was there too, already sweating profusely as he lumbered through some drills, his hulking form swaying like a mountain of flesh. Watching over them was a tall, imposing figure in a long black coat — Max's father, his presence commanding even the wind to still.
Elena glanced briefly in their direction, a faint frown touching her lips before she motioned Scarlett over to an empty section of the yard.
"Don't look at them," Elena said quietly. "They'll only distract you. Focus on your stance."
Scarlett nodded, adjusting her footing as Elena moved behind her.
"Weight forward, knees slightly bent. You're thinking too much, you plum — feel the movement, don't force it."
Scarlett tried again, throwing a punch that lacked conviction. Elena caught her wrist mid-swing and redirected it gently.
"Good form, but you need intent. You're not swatting a fly, you're striking an enemy that wants you Dead."
Scarlett let out a small laugh. "You sound just like Sergeant Smith."
Elena smiled faintly. "He'd take that as a compliment."
They trained together for what felt like hours, sweat beading on their foreheads, the ache in their muscles a welcome burn. Scarlett began to move with more confidence — her footwork lighter, her strikes sharper. Elena felt a quiet sense of pride watching her friend improve with each attempt.
From across the field, Max leaned lazily against a fence, smirking.
"Look at them," he muttered to Bob. "Playing soldiers."
His father's cold eyes followed Elena for a moment before turning away, unreadable.
By the time the sun began to lower behind the trees, the two girls collapsed on the grass, breathing hard, laughter breaking through their exhaustion.
"That wasn't half bad," Scarlett said between gasps.
"You'll be better than me soon enough," Elena teased.
"Not a chance," Scarlett shot back, grinning.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the sky burn orange and gold before finally heading back toward the main building — both unaware of how quickly the peace of that moment would fade.
The corridors of the academy were quiet when Elena and Scarlett arrived at the infirmary. The faint hum of ceiling lights filled the silence as they stepped through the door. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old wood polish, the kind of sterile calm that felt wrong after the chaos of the day before.
Rows of white beds lined the room, a handful of students still recovering from training accidents or ability mishaps. At the far end, Billy lay motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. His arm — or where it used to be — was tightly bandaged beneath crisp white sheets.
Elena hesitated at the doorway. For the first time since the fight, she truly saw him. The confident spark that had always lit Billy's face was gone, replaced by something hollow.
Scarlett nudged her gently. "Go on," she whispered.
Elena stepped closer, pulling up a chair beside his bed.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice uncertain. "You're supposed to be the strong one, remember?"
Billy didn't move. Not a twitch. His face was calm, eyes closed, breathing steady. If not for the faint tension in his jaw, she might have believed he was asleep.
Scarlett folded her arms, frowning. "He's awake," she murmured. "I can tell."
Elena glanced up, startled.
"You think?"
Scarlett nodded, lowering her voice. "He's too still. He's listening."
Elena studied him more closely, the faintest flicker of movement beneath his eyelids confirming Scarlett's suspicion. But instead of calling him out, she simply sighed and reached for his remaining hand, giving it a small squeeze.
"Fine," she said quietly. "Pretend all you like. Just… don't stay lost in there too long, okay?"
For a moment, she thought she saw his fingers twitch — then nothing.
The nurse walked by, clipboard in hand. "He hasn't said a word since the operation," she murmured. "He's stable, but… distant. Some take longer to come back to themselves after trauma like that."
Elena nodded slowly. "We'll give him time."
As they left, Scarlett looked back over her shoulder at Billy's still form.
"He saved your life, Elena," she said softly. "But I think he lost a part of himself doing it."
Elena didn't respond — she didn't need to. The look in her eyes said enough.
Outside, the morning wind was cool against their skin, carrying with it the faint echo of training shouts from the distant field. They walked in silence back toward the dorms, neither noticing that behind them, in the infirmary's dim light, Billy's eyes had opened.
Cold, hollow — and something darker flickering behind them.
The infirmary was quiet again by the time Sergeant Smith stepped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Billy lay where he had been all day, still as stone, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
Smith stopped at the end of the bed and folded his arms. "You know," he said after a long pause, "you're a terrible actor."
Billy's eyes flicked towards him for the briefest second before turning away again.
Smith sighed and dragged over a chair, the metal legs scraping against the floor. He sat, resting his clipboard on his knee. "The nurse says you haven't spoken since yesterday. Elena's worried sick. So's Scarlett. But I know the look of someone who's thinking far too much."
Still nothing.
Smith leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You did good, lad. Saved her life. Took the hit like a soldier."
Billy's jaw tightened. His voice came out rough, low, and cold. "A soldier doesn't freeze up when it matters most."
"You didn't freeze," Smith replied evenly. "You acted. If you hadn't, Elena would be gone."
"That's not what it feels like," Billy muttered, finally turning to meet his eyes. The boy who once brimmed with confidence now looked older — haunted. "You ever wake up and realise you're weaker than everyone else? That no matter how hard you train, something will always take more from you than you can give?"
Smith frowned. "That's not weakness, lad. That's—"
Billy cut him off, voice sharp. "—Reality."
Silence lingered between them.
Smith studied him for a moment longer before speaking again, softer this time. "I've seen a lot of recruits and friends lose parts of themselves out there. Arms. Legs. Worse. But the strong ones — the real strong ones — learn to fight differently. You've still got that chance."
Billy's expression didn't change. His good hand clenched under the blanket, knuckles white. "You don't get it. You didn't see her face. The fear and pity. When they looked at my arm, Gone."
Smith's tone hardened slightly. "You don't get it lad, That fear is because they are worried, about you Billy."
For a moment, Billy looked ready to argue — but instead, a faint smile crept onto his lips. It wasn't warm. It wasn't grateful. It was cold, distant… wrong.
"You're right, Sarge," he said softly. "Next time, I won't fail her. Or anyone."
Smith studied him, uneasy. There was something in the boy's eyes now — something flickering, dangerous, like a spark caught in oil.
He stood, resting a hand on the bed rail. "Rest up, son. You'll need your strength."
Billy didn't reply. His gaze followed the sergeant until the door clicked shut, then drifted toward the dark corner of the room.
His reflection in the metal frame of the bed smiled back at him — wider than before.