Chapter 261
Chapter 261:
“Make it creative,” I whispered to them.
I walked out, leaving them staring at each other in confusion.
The next morning, the wake-up siren wailed at 4:00 AM. It sounded like an air raid.
I was already awake. I’d slept fitfully, my body too attuned to danger to rest deeply in a new place. I threw off the covers and dressed in the gear provided: black leggings and a fitted top.
I stepped into the hallway. The other trainees spilled out of their crowded dorms, groggy, hair messy, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
When they saw me—hair tied in a perfect high ponytail, face washed, gear pristine—the grumbling started immediately.
“She probably has a personal stylist in there,” Tiffany muttered.
We assembled on the outdoor track. The mud from yesterday had frozen into hard, uneven ruts. Floodlights buzzed overhead, casting long, harsh shadows.
Grace stood there with a stopwatch. Beside her was a burly instructor who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.
“Ten kilometers,” the instructor barked. “With weights. Five-pound ankle straps. Go p>
A pile of weighted straps lay on the grass. The trainees groaned.
Whitney grabbed a pair and strapped them on with aggressive jerks. She glared at me. “Try not to trip, Princess. Mud is hard to get out of silk p>
I picked up the weights and fastened them around my ankles. The weight was familiar. I’d spent months training my body after my rebirth, preparing for the day I’d need to run for my life.
The pack took off. Whitney sprinted to the front immediately, trying to set a dominance pace. She was fast—explosive. I didn’t sprint. I settled into a rhythm. Inhale for two steps. Exhale for two steps.
The cold air burned my lungs, but it was a good burn. It reminded me I was alive.
By the third kilometer, the pack began to thin. The trainees’ heavy breathing sounded like a steam engine breaking down.
I maintained my pace. My legs burned, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about Seraphina. Every step was a stomp on her face. Every breath was a refusal to let her win.
At the five-kilometer mark, Whitney started to slow. Her sprint had cost her. She panted hard, her form getting sloppy.
I came up beside her.
𝗨nc𝗲nѕ𝗈𝗋𝘦𝗱 𝘴𝗍o𝗋𝗶еs 𝗼𝗻 𝘣𝖾.cо𝗺
She heard me and glanced sideways, her eyes widening when she saw I wasn’t gasping for air.
“Get… away,” she wheezed.
As I moved to pass her, she swerved. It was subtle—a shift of her hip, meant to clip my leg and send me sprawling into the frozen mud.
I anticipated it. I didn’t break stride. I sidestepped fluidly, a dancer’s move, shifting my weight and slipping around her obstruction like water around a rock.
Whitney stumbled, her own momentum working against her. She flailed, barely keeping her balance.
I accelerated.
I passed her. Then I passed Miles.
I was in the lead.
The silence behind me was heavy. They’d expected me to quit. They’d expected me to cry.
I crossed the finish line first. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t bend over with my hands on my knees. I walked a slow circle to cool down, my chest heaving but controlled.
Grace clicked her stopwatch. She looked at the time, then at me. For a second, the disdain in her eyes wavered, replaced by a flicker of calculation.
Whitney crossed the line a minute later. She collapsed on the grass, coughing. She looked up at me with pure hatred.
Just then, a low hum filled the air. Headlights cut through the pre-dawn gloom.
A car approached the gate. Not a van. Not a truck. And certainly not a Vance company car.