I have my own version—the compulsive need to map exits, to test restraints, to know I can always,alwaysget out if I need to.
Two broken people with matching coping mechanisms.
Maybe that's why we fit.
She finishes with the shirt and reaches for the tie, looping it around her collar with practiced ease. Her movements are efficient but not rushed. Methodical. Like getting dressed is its own kind of performance, requiring attention and precision.
"The importance of performing arts," she says, catching my gaze in the mirror, "is that it's the only thing that makes me feel human. Dancing is... it's the one space where all the noise in my head goes quiet. Where I can just exist in my body without my brain trying to destroy me."
The vulnerability in the admission makes my chest tight.
She's not just talking about a hobby.
She's talking about survival.
"And they might take that away?" I ask.
She finishes tying the tie, adjusting it precisely before turning to face me. The school uniform transforms her somehow—makes her look younger, more innocent, even though I know exactly how dangerous she is beneath the pleated skirt and pressed blazer.
"It might disappear," she confirms. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "No pack, no activities. That's the new reality for Omegas in the Ruthless sector."
The injustice of it burns through me.
She's brilliant.
Talented.
The kind of performer who could light up stages across the world if anyone gave her the chance.
And they're going to take it from her because she doesn't have a pack? Because she's survived this nightmare alone instead of finding Alphas to claim her?
"What if we're your pack?"
The words come out before I can think better of them.
She freezes.
For a moment—just one crystalline moment—her expression softens. The walls she keeps so carefully maintained crack just slightly, revealing something vulnerable and hopeful underneath.
Then she shakes her head.
"That's just the reality of an Omega in the Ruthless sector of Hard Knot Academy." She picks up her blades—those beautiful dual daggers I remember from last night—and slides them into a mini backpack with practiced ease. "I doubt your pack is easy prey or accepting of foreign things like a crazed Omega."
She shrugs the backpack on, adjusting the straps until the weapons sit perfectly between her shoulder blades.
"But hey." Her smile is sharper now, more defensive. "If they think they can put up with me, be their guest."
Through the bond, I feel the resignation underneath the bravado.
She doesn't believe it.
Doesn't think anyone could actually want her enough to fight for her, to include her, to make her part of something bigger than herself.
She's been alone too long.
Rejected too many times.
The hope she felt last night—when we bonded, when I made promises about running away together—is already beingsmothered by the practical certainty that nothing good ever lasts.
