No bows.
No standing fifty yards away and taking the coward's route.
If you want to kill someone in Ruthless, you have to mean it.
Work for it.
You have to get close enough to smell their fear.
To feel their pulse stutter.
To watch the light leave their eyes.
I fucking love the rules here.
My breathing shifts—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—centering myself. My toes flex inside the ballet shoes, testing grip, calculating angles.
The world narrows to sensation:
The cool press of metal against my spine where my blades wait.
The whisper of wind through the buildings.
The distant hum of the academy's infrastructure waking up.
And closer—so much closer—the sound of footsteps.
Three sets.
Two heavy, one lighter.
Alphas, probably. Maybe a Beta. Definitely stupid.
I hold my breath.
It's an old trick, one I learned during my first month here when I was still figuring out how to survive. When you hold your breath, everything else gets sharper. Louder. Morepresent.
Your hearing amplifies.
Your awareness expands.
Time seems to slow just enough to give you an edge.
And in Ruthless Academy, an edge is the difference between walking away and bleeding out in the gutter.
My mismatched eyes drift closed.
Blue and green hidden behind pale lids.
The world becomes pure sound:
Footsteps. Getting closer. Twenty feet. Fifteen.
Breathing. Heavy. Nervous. They're not professionals.
Fabric rustling. Weapons being drawn.
Ten feet.
