I limped toward her unsteadily, one hand outstretched in supplication, the other pressed to my "injured" ribs—steps halting, body swaying as if on the verge of collapse.
She raised the knife again, point quivering at my chest, her whole body shaking with conflicted fury. "Don't come closer! Didn't I tell you to get lost? Never contact us again! I will kill you—don't test me!"
I stopped right in front of her—mere inches away, close enough that she could feel my labored breaths ghosting over her skin, smell the coppery blood. The knife hovered perilously close to my heart, her hand unsteady.
"Sister Yuko…" I whispered, my voice breaking with feigned despair, eyes locking onto hers—pleading, vulnerable. "Do you really think that? You really don't trust me at all…? After everything?"
Her hand shook harder, tears pouring down her cheeks in silent rivers. The knife didn't move forward—but neither did she pull away.
