*Trigger warnings* violence, angst, family drama, school drama.
Imani stands in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.
He's been avoiding this conversation for two days.
I haven't.
I sit on the edge of my bed, calm, composed, fingers folded neatly in my lap. My father suggested I push harder—he thinks I should have left already, rules be damned—but I prefer to negotiate.
For now.
"You can't keep me locked in here forever," I say, voice smooth, measured.
Imani exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "No one's keeping you locked up."
I arch a brow. "No? So if I walk out right now, you won't stop me?"
His jaw tightens.
That's what I thought.
"This isn't a prison, Cherish." His voice is even, but there's something strained beneath it. "We're just trying to make sure you're—"
"Stable?" I finish for him.
He hesitates.
I smile. "I am."
He doesn't smile back.
"You think you are." He tilts his head, studying me. "But the moment you step outside, the moment you see the people waiting for you—the people you used to love—"
I sigh. "You're hoping it'll break me."
He doesn't deny it.
I shake my head, almost amused. "Imani, you're smart enough to know better."
His fingers twitch at his sides. "I want to believe you're still in there."
I lean forward, just slightly. "And what if I'm not?"
His breath catches. Just for a second.
That's all I need.
"You think this is about locking me away until I snap out of it," I say, voice soft, measured. "But what you're really doing is stalling." I tilt my head. "Because you don't know what to do with me."
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
I smile again. "You're afraid."
Imani doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
But I see it.
In the tightness of his shoulders. The flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.
He's always been the rational one. The calm one. The one who takes in every detail, every angle, and finds a solution.
But this?
Me?
He doesn't have an answer.
And it's killing him.
I stand, slow and deliberate, stepping closer. "You want me to stay in here forever?" I murmur. "Afraid I'll do something if you let me out?"
His breath is tight. "I just want to keep you safe."
I stop in front of him, close enough to see every fracture in his resolve.
"Safe," I echo. "From what?"
Imani swallows. "From yourself."
I smile, soft and knowing.
Imani stands at the threshold of the door, eyes narrowed, arms still crossed over his chest. He looks like he's weighing every word, every possibility, and I can feel the tension in the air like a drumbeat.
He's not used to this version of me.
"I'll give you half an hour," he says, finally. His voice is cautious, but there's a hint of something like reluctance in it. "That's it. No more. You don't leave this floor."
I smile, the corners of my lips curling up slightly. "Fair enough."
Imani doesn't move, doesn't speak for a long moment. Then, he steps aside, giving me space to walk past him.
I don't look back.
I don't need to.
I already know he's watching me.
I pass a few doors, see the faint shadows behind them, but it's the ones ahead that I focus on—the ones that lead to the others.
Aunt Nayley is the first to see me.
She's sitting at the small kitchen table when I step into the room. Dewey is next to her, his arms folded across his chest, like he's been waiting for me. His eyes flick to mine and then immediately to the floor, like he's unsure how to act.
They both know what I've become.
Neither one says a word.
Aunt Nayley doesn't stand, but her eyes soften as they meet mine. "Cherish," she says, voice low, like she's afraid of breaking the moment. "It's good to see you up."
I take a step into the room, and my gaze flickers over Dewey, who shifts uncomfortably under my attention.
"I'm not dead, Nayley," I reply, my voice as calm as it's ever been.
Dewey doesn't speak.
His hands are clenched tightly at his sides, and his gaze flickers between Aunt Nayley and me, like he's trying to figure out the right thing to say.
Finally, he meets my eyes, and for the briefest moment, I see something in him—a flicker of the boy who used to laugh with me. A memory that's almost painful for both of us.
"You're... different," he mutters, his voice unsure.
I raise a brow. "Am I?"
He hesitates, the words almost not coming out. "You—well, you're not you anymore, Cherish." His voice is tight with the tension of not knowing. "I don't know who you are now."
The words are quiet, but they hit harder than I expect.
But it doesn't make me feel anything.
It should, I know.
But it doesn't.
"I'm exactly who I need to be," I say, calm.
Aunt Nayley watches us both in silence, her expression unreadable.
There's a long pause before she speaks, her voice quiet but firm. "I don't know if we'll ever understand what happened to you, Cherish. But I know you're still in there."
I turn toward her, meeting her gaze directly.
"You don't need to understand," I tell her. "You just need to accept it."
Dewey opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but the words die in his throat.
"I'm not going anywhere," I add, almost as an afterthought. "I just have... more important things to focus on now."
And just as the silence settles between us, I feel it.
Miras.
I don't have to look to know he's there.
The weight of him hits the air like a ripple in water, thick with the tension that's always been between us.
I don't turn, but I can sense him behind me.
Aunt Nayley shifts uncomfortably in her seat, like she can feel it too.
And then, without saying a word, Miras steps into the room.
I don't see his face. I don't need to.
I can feel him, the storm of emotions swirling in him, the way his presence fills the space in a way that's both familiar and foreign now.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, until the weight of it finally breaks.
Miras steps forward, slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. There's a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, like he's waiting for some part of me to return, some spark of the person I used to be.
I don't give it to him.
Instead, I tilt my head, studying him in return, the way his jaw is clenched tight, the way his fists twitch at his sides, like he's ready to reach out but doesn't know how.
"Cherish…" His voice is rough, raw, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the space between us like a knife. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to be this."
I almost laugh, but I hold it in.
Almost.
"Why not?" I ask, my voice smooth, controlled, almost curious. "You don't like what I've become?"
He flinches, but doesn't answer.
Instead, he steps closer, his voice low but insistent. "This isn't you. You know it isn't. You're lost, Cherish. You're broken."
I can feel the raw pain in his words, the desperation in them.
But it doesn't reach me.
I take another step forward, until we're standing only a few feet apart. His eyes flicker to my face, and for a moment, it's like I see a glimpse of that boy—that Miras, the one who used to be able to reach me.
But I don't want him to.
"I'm not broken, Miras," I say, my voice soft, almost teasing. "I'm more than I was. You're the one who's still stuck on what I used to be."
His gaze sharpens, his chest rising with a quick breath. "You don't get it. You don't understand what this is doing to you, to us."
"And what's it doing to you?" I ask, leaning in just a little, letting the words hang between us. "Does it hurt, Miras? Does it scare you to see me like this? To realize I don't need you anymore?"
He stares at me, eyes wide and almost broken, but still, he doesn't move.
"I'm not the girl you knew," I continue, my voice cool, calm. "And you're not the boy who thought he could save me."
The silence stretches longer this time, like a thread ready to snap.
"You saved me."
I stop, just for a moment, and let his words hang in the air between us.
"I didn't save you," I say, my voice soft, almost dismissive. "I saved myself."
I can feel his eyes on my back, the weight of his gaze pressing down like a heavy hand, but I don't turn around. Not yet.
"You don't get it," Miras's voice cracks, raw, desperate. "You did save me. You saved all of us. You don't remember, but—" He takes a step forward, his voice trembling with frustration now. "You're telling me you've forgotten what we went through? How you saved my life? How you fought to stop the collapse, to stop them from destroying everything?"
turn slowly, letting his words sink into the space between us. His eyes are wild, unrecognizable, like he's seeing the ghost of the girl he thought I was. The girl I used to be.
"You think I've forgotten?" I ask quietly. "I remember everything. The fight. The power. The destruction. The world crumbling."
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze without flinching. "But I'm not her anymore. That girl is gone, Miras."
His face falters, and for a moment, I see the boy I knew—vulnerable, scared, desperate for the version of me that used to love him. But it's fleeting.
"No," he says, his voice strained, as if the very thought of it is unbearable. "You are her, Cherish. You're the one who saved me. You're the one who stopped everything from falling apart. You can't just throw that away."
I blink, my chest tight, a cold sensation settling in. "It's already been thrown away." My voice drops to a whisper. "The world changed, Miras. I changed. And I don't need saving anymore."
He steps closer, but I don't move. His eyes are full of that desperation I can't bear anymore, the same thing I used to feel, the same thing I used to cling to.
"You think you're better than that now?" he asks, his voice sharp with hurt, his words like arrows aimed directly at my chest. "You think this—" He gestures to me, to the power radiating off me like a storm, something raw and untamed, "—is all you've ever wanted?"
I stare at him for a long moment, and then my lips curve up just slightly, just enough to show how far I've moved past him.
"I never wanted any of this," I say, my voice cold. "But now that it's here… I'm not going to run from it. I'm not going to pretend to be the person I used to be. I'm done pretending."
Miras stands frozen, caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak, and for a moment, I feel that flicker of something in me—the echo of the girl who used to care, the girl who used to fight for him.
My room is empty. Except for the the echo of my breath and the hum of energy that surrounds me, pressing in, vibrating just beneath the surface of my skin.
I stand in the center, feeling the power within me pulse—wild and untamed, like a living thing. At first, it was overwhelming, suffocating. But now, it feels... natural. As if it's always been a part of me, waiting for me to notice.
I close my eyes, letting my senses stretch outward, feeling the power coil through my body like a slow, steady current. It's almost like a heartbeat, deep and steady, thrumming in my chest. And for once, I don't fight it.
I don't need to fight anymore.
I take a deep breath, letting the sensation of control wash over me. My hands tremble slightly as I raise them, palms facing each other. The air around me shivers, the temperature dropping as the energy swirls, gathering between my hands.
I don't force it. I simply let it happen.
A ball of light forms, small at first, flickering and unstable. But it's mine. I feel it, like I can mold it, shape it with a mere thought. It's a part of me now.
I close my hands around the sphere, feeling the heat of it pulse through my fingers. There's no fear, no hesitation. Only certainty.
With a slight push, I expand it. The energy crackles and hums, the ball growing larger, its light brighter. The air around it bends, distorting with the force of it. I open my hand again, letting the sphere float in front of me, weightless, like it's obeying my will.
This is what I've been searching for. This is what I've needed.
I focus, narrowing my attention. The ball shifts and bends, and I push it further, sending a ripple of energy across the room. The walls seem to tremble in response, the windows shaking under the sheer force. But I don't stop. I can feel the power coursing through me now—more than just raw energy, but control.
I am in charge.
I raise my hand, and the sphere of light hovers higher, spinning gently. I can feel the weight of it, the pull of it. But it doesn't control me. Not anymore.
I hold it steady in midair, watching it pulse and crackle. It's like an extension of my own will—my thoughts shaping it, guiding it, bending it to do what I want. The energy surges outward, a brilliant light filling the room. For a moment, it feels like I could reach out and touch the very core of the universe itself.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Imani.
I don't move.
I don't need to.
I can feel him approaching, his presence like a weight, like a shadow that stretches across the threshold.
The door opens without a knock, and there he is, standing in the doorway. His face is hard, unreadable, but I can see the storm raging behind his eyes.
"Still locked in your little tower, Cherish?" he asks, his voice almost casual, but I hear the strain in it. He doesn't know what to do with me. He never has.
I stare at him, unwavering.
"I'm not a prisoner, Imani," I say softly, the words almost a challenge.
His gaze flickers briefly to the space between us, like he's expecting something—an apology, an explanation, anything.
"Then what are you doing here?" he asks. The words come out like a demand, not a question, and I realize that's what this is—he's demanding that I feel something again.
But I don't.
"I'm choosing," I say, and there's an edge in my voice, something sharp and final. "For the first time, I'm choosing what's best for me. And that means letting go of everything else."
His face tightens, a flicker of pain flashing through his eyes, but he doesn't say anything. "Your father is going to have to deal with you because I—I can't."
Good.
I like my father. He's the only one interested in the new me.
******
The days blend together in a haze of books, articles, and endless hours spent combing through online resources. I spend my time learning about what happened after the battle, what the world has become in the wake of everything we fought for. It's a strange disconnect—facing the cold, factual history of the battle from a distance, while knowing the truth is much more complicated than any report or article could tell.
I've always hated feeling powerless. But now, I realize just how much I never knew, how much I was blind to before. The world has become a twisted reflection of what we tried to fix, and every page I read only seems to deepen the weight on my chest. The truth is unsettling, but it's mine to bear now.
I've learned about the people who fled, about the rise of new factions, the scattered remnants of old organizations like the one that tried to control me. It's all still out there, lurking, waiting for someone like me to crack open the door and give them an opening.
But I won't let that happen. Not anymore.
Miras, though… Miras is harder to ignore.
Our meetings have become a strange dance—he's trying to hold onto the person I used to be, and I'm slipping further and further away with each passing day. I see the frustration in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens when I speak, like he's still waiting for the "real" me to show up. But I've learned that the more I try to remember who I was, the more I lose who I am.
It's complicated.
The latest meeting is no different. I stand across from him in the same sterile, empty space where we've met countless times since the power took hold. There's a tension in the air, the kind that only comes when two people know something is breaking but are too afraid to admit it.
He looks at me like he's still holding on to hope, still trying to bridge the gap between the girl he knew and the one standing before him now.
"You've been distant," Miras says, his voice quieter than usual. His gaze is steady, unwavering, but there's something in the set of his shoulders—tension, like he's preparing for something. "I don't know who you're becoming, Cherish, but I don't think you're seeing it for what it is."
"You're wrong," I say, my tone sharp. "I see exactly what I'm becoming. I'm not a hero anymore. I'm not the person you think I am. I'm someone else."
His jaw clenches, but he doesn't move. "This isn't you, Cherish. I don't know what happened, but I know you're still in there. The real you—our Cherish—is still inside."
I swallow the bitter laugh that rises in my throat. "No, Miras. The real me is gone."
The words come out colder than I intend, but it doesn't matter. It's the truth, and he doesn't want to hear it.
He takes a step toward me, his eyes searching mine, trying to find something, anything that would give him hope. "You think this power is what makes you stronger? That it's giving you control? It's not, Cherish. It's consuming you."
I feel a pang deep inside me, something that feels like the remnant of guilt, of everything I've ever lost. But it doesn't hold me back. Not anymore.
"I'm not being consumed," I reply evenly, watching him carefully. "I'm choosing it. I'm choosing to control it. And I'm choosing me."
Miras's hand curls into a fist at his side. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between wanting to protect me and wanting to hold onto the girl I used to be. But that girl is fading, and the power inside me is all I have left.
"This isn't a choice," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "This power—it's turning you into something you're not. I can't just stand by and let it destroy you, Cherish."
I take a deep breath, meeting his gaze head-on. I feel the power in me surge again, a pulse that's almost electric, like it's responding to the tension between us.
"It's too late for that," I say quietly. "You should've realized that by now."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with words unsaid, with the weight of everything we're both holding back.
The tension in the room is palpable, thick like smoke, swirling around us as we stand there in the silence. Miras hasn't moved, but I can feel his presence pressing against me, like he's trying to reach past the walls I've put up. His eyes are full of determination—he's not giving up, not yet.
But I'm already so far beyond reach.
He takes a deep breath, his gaze narrowing slightly, and then he speaks again, quieter this time, his words cutting through the stillness. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"
I raise an eyebrow, the words feeling like a challenge. "Forgotten what?"
His voice drops lower, more deliberate. "Dr. Amar. The Cube. Everything he did to you."
A cold, sharp spike of something jagged shoots through me—anger, pain, a flicker of fear. But I bury it quickly, turning the intensity of my gaze back on him. He thinks he can get to me. He thinks he can bring me back by reminding me of my worst memories.
"Why are you bringing him up?" I ask, the calm in my voice almost unnerving.
Miras doesn't flinch. His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, I see the flicker of something desperate—he's trying to make me feel something, anything. "You don't think it's relevant? After everything you've been through, after all the pain, the manipulation…" He lets the words hang in the air, heavy and full of accusation. "Do you really think this power you're holding onto is worth it? After everything he did to you?"
My breath catches, just for a second, and something stirs deep inside me. A fleeting moment of vulnerability, of the girl I used to be before the power took hold. I can almost see myself through his eyes—the girl who was once so broken, so desperate for answers, for safety.
But I shove it all down, locking it away behind the cold, empty shell I've created.
"I don't need you to remind me of him," I say, my voice tight. "I know what I went through. I lived it."
I take a step forward, closing the space between us, meeting his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But what I went through doesn't matter anymore. What matters is what I've become. And I'm in control now, Miras."
"You're not in control," he says, his voice low, almost pleading now. "This power is controlling you. You're becoming someone else, someone you're not."
I shake my head slowly. "You're wrong. I am in control. You just can't see it because you're still stuck in the past."
He looks at me like he's trying to find any sign that the person he once knew is still in there, like a flicker of hope that hasn't completely burned out. But it's not there.
Dr. Amar, the Cube, the pain—they're all distant memories now, shadows that have long since faded. They no longer haunt me. The power is everything now, and I've embraced it. I am no longer the girl who cowered in fear.
"I'm not afraid of him anymore," I say, the words coming out as cold as the power inside me. "I'm not afraid of anything."
The silence between us deepens. He doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know how to bring me back from the place I've gone, the place where nothing can touch me anymore.
Miras steps closer again, his words becoming sharper, more forceful, as if he thinks that by throwing all of my pain in my face, he'll somehow break through to me. But I know better now. He's playing a game I've already won.
"You don't get it, Cherish," he says, his voice rough with frustration. "Do you remember how many times you almost died? How you flatlined multiple times, and they still kept pushing you? You were a lab rat, Cherish. You needed brain surgery. They rewired your entire nervous system, all for their own twisted experiments."
His words hit hard, digging into old scars I've buried under layers of detachment, but I don't let myself flinch. I won't give him the satisfaction.
He takes another step forward, and I feel the heat of his anger radiating off him. "Do you remember how you refused to eat, refused to take care of yourself, because you needed to be in control? They were breaking you, Cherish, and you didn't even care. They tortured you, and you just kept pushing through, because you thought if you didn't, if you let go, they would win."
His voice cracks, but it only makes me want to push him away even more. I don't need his pity, his anger, or his pity-filled words.
"And after all of that," he continues, his words coming faster, more desperate, "you were still experimented on. They kept doing it, kept using you—throwing you in that hell until you couldn't even remember who you were."
I feel a ripple of something, something close to fury, something I thought was long buried. I clench my fists, feeling the hum of power underneath my skin, begging to be unleashed.
"You think you're the only one who remembers that?" I spit, my voice sharp, the control I've maintained starting to slip. "You think you're the only one who knows how much it hurt? How much I suffered?"
Miras steps back, his expression one of disbelief, as if he's just realized that what he's saying has struck a nerve. But I don't care anymore.
"You have no idea what it was like. I didn't need anyone to tell me what I've been through," I say, my voice rising with every word, the power inside me reacting to my anger. "You think you can guilt-trip me into feeling sorry for myself? You think this is what's going to stop me?"
I take a step toward him, feeling the air around me grow thicker, more electric. "I was already broken when they found me, Miras. But I'm not broken anymore. You're the one who doesn't understand. I'm not the same person, and I never will be again."
Miras opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can say another word.
"Don't speak to me like that," I warn, my voice low and threatening. "Don't use my past to try and manipulate me, because it won't work. I've come too far to be dragged back down into those old memories. I'm not that girl anymore. And if you can't accept that, then I'm done."
I turn on my heel, my steps sharp and sure. "I'm not going to keep having this conversation with you, Miras. I'm done letting you twist everything I've been through into something you think is wrong. I've moved on. You should too."
I don't look back, but I feel the weight of his gaze on me, the silence of the room pressing down as I leave him behind. It feels like a finality, but I don't feel any regret.
I'm halfway out of the room when I hear it.
"Cherie."
The nickname, soft and familiar, rings out in the stillness. It's a name that used to make my heart skip, a name I haven't heard in so long, one that still carries the remnants of who I used to be.
I stop in my tracks, my back still turned to him, but the moment the word slips from his lips, something shifts. For just a breath, I feel it—a pull, a tug at something deep inside me.
"Don't call me that," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, the words thick with an emotion I can't shake. I won't let him bring me back to that place, to the girl who clung to his warmth and protection like it was all I had left.
But Miras doesn't stop. He takes a step forward, his voice gentle but laced with a desperate need. "Cherie... I remember who you are. I know you're still in there."
My chest tightens, the weight of his words nearly unbearable. He's trying to reach me, trying to remind me of something I've buried so deep that even the mention of it feels like it might tear me apart. The past, the girl I used to be—Cherie—it feels like a lifetime ago.
I swallow hard, my throat closing up. "I'm not her anymore."
His face softens, the years of pain and regret flashing across his features in an instant. "Cherie, please..."
The power inside me churns, like a beast awakening, and I feel it threaten to take over, the energy pulling me back to that place, that part of myself that doesn't exist anymore.
But I can't go back.
I turn to face him, my eyes burning with something raw, something dark. "You don't get it, do you?" I bite the words off, my voice hard. "I'm not Cherie anymore. You can't fix this. I don't need fixing."
Miras falters, the weight of my words sinking in. I see it in his eyes, the last bit of hope fading away. He knows now. He knows I'm not the same, that the girl he once knew is long gone.
And for the first time, it doesn't hurt.
I don't know what's left of me after everything that's happened, but I'm done being the person they want me to be. I'm done being the person he wants me to be.
"Goodbye, Miras."
I don't wait for his response. I turn away again, leaving the room, leaving the past behind. But that name—Cherie—lingers in the air like a ghost, haunting me with the echo of everything I used to be, and everything I'll never be again.
Miras keeps his distance. He watches, always watching, but he doesn't push again. Not after the last time. Not after I made it clear that whatever he was looking for in me no longer exists.
Still, I catch glimpses of him—leaning against the lockers, talking to Imani in hushed tones when they think I'm not paying attention, running a hand through his hair in frustration when I don't react the way he wants me to.
It doesn't matter.
None of it matters.
What does matter is what I've been doing with my time outside of school. Every night, after the tower goes quiet, I sit in my room and reach for the energy within me. I let it unravel, stretch, coil around my fingers like it's alive.
And now, finally, it is no longer a storm that threatens to swallow me whole.
It listens.
It obeys.
Tonight, I sit cross-legged on the floor, my hands resting on my knees, eyes closed. The energy hums beneath my skin, waiting. When I exhale, it spills out like liquid fire, curling in the air around me, shifting, changing shape with a single thought.
I open my eyes and watch as the light twists, bending into something sharp, something dangerous. It dances in the air between my fingertips, as effortless as breathing.
I control it.
And for the first time, I don't feel like I'm drowning.
A knock at the door shatters the silence.
I don't even have to ask who it is.
"Not in the mood for another lecture, Imani," I call, flexing my fingers. The light retracts, disappearing beneath my skin in an instant.
The door opens anyway.
It's not Imani.
It's Miras.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His presence is different tonight—he's not tense, not frustrated. He looks... resigned.
"You're getting stronger," he says.
I tilt my head. "You spying on me now?"
"Doesn't take much to notice when the air feels like it's crackling every time I walk past your room." He steps inside, closing the door behind him. "How long have you been practicing?"
I shrug. "Long enough."
Miras watches me, his gaze flickering to my hands. "And does it feel good?"
I exhale through my nose, amused. "Of course, it does."
His jaw tightens. "It didn't used to."
I sigh, standing up, brushing invisible dust from my sweatpants. "Maybe that's because I was fighting it. Now, I'm not." I look up at him, daring him to argue. "Now, I am it."
Miras holds my gaze for a long moment. He looks like he wants to say something else, something heavier. But instead, he just says, "You're not the only one who has to live with what happened."
I freeze.
And there it is.
The first real crack in his armor.
I force a smirk, but it feels thin, hollow. "Is that why you came here? To make me feel guilty? News flash, Miras—whatever I did, whatever I became—I survived. And I don't regret it."
His hands clench at his sides. "I know you don't." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "But I do."
Something shifts in his expression, something vulnerable, something I don't want to see.
So I step past him, reaching for the door. "Then that sounds like your problem, not mine."
I don't slow down. I don't hesitate. I walk like I have every right to be here—because I do—and I ignore the way Miras' footsteps shadow mine.
He's not trying to stop me. Not yet. But I can feel him, like a second heartbeat trailing too close behind. I know what he's doing.
I reach the end of the hall, but the second I step forward, a figure moves into my path.
I don't even need to look up. I recognize the weight of his presence before I see his face.
Imani.
And standing beside him—my father.
I don't stop. I just tilt my head, give them both an unimpressed once-over, and take another step.
"Where do you think you're going?" Imani asks, voice careful, controlled.
I raise an eyebrow. "Didn't realize I needed permission to walk."
"You don't," Imani says, eyes narrowing. "But you do need to tell us where you're going."
I scoff, crossing my arms. "Since when do I owe you anything?"
"You don't."
It's my father who speaks this time, and that does make me pause. Not for long, just a fraction of a second, just enough to realize I barely recognize the way he sounds anymore. He watches me carefully, his expression calm—but not empty. Not cold. If anything, it's worse. It's like he's searching for something in me, waiting to see if there's even a sliver of the girl he once knew.
"But that doesn't mean we'll let you walk into something you can't come back from."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—sharp and humorless. "That's funny. I thought I already did that."
Behind me, Miras moves. I can't see him, but I feel the shift, the way the air tightens, how his silence grows heavier.
Imani doesn't flinch. He just sets his jaw and says, "You're not yourself."
I give him a lazy smile. "Then who am I?"
Imani doesn't answer.
Neither does my father.
I take a step forward. "If you're waiting for me to break down, to feel something, you're going to be waiting a long time."
My father exhales slowly, measured. "We're trying to help you."
I meet his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, I speak honestly. "Then maybe you should've tried sooner."
The words land like a knife.
For a moment, silence stretches between us.
Imani's lips press into a thin line, my father's expression darkens, and behind me, Miras' breathing goes sharp.
I don't care.
I move forward again, forcing them to either step aside or stop me.
"Now," I say, lifting my chin. "If you'll excuse me—"
But Imani doesn't move.
Neither does my father.
Miras sighs behind me, and I hear the frustration in his voice when he mutters, "This isn't going to end well."
I smirk, gaze flicking between them. They don't get it yet.
I do.
"For who?" I ask.
Imani doesn't answer. He just holds my gaze, jaw tight, eyes burning with the weight of something I don't care enough to decipher. My father watches me the way someone watches a wildfire inch closer to their doorstep—knowing it's coming, knowing there's nothing they can do to stop it.
Miras, though—Miras isn't watching. He's moving.
Before I can react, his hand wraps around my wrist.
The touch isn't forceful, not really, but it halts me, and something about that makes my blood heat.
I look down at his grip, then up at him, unimpressed.
"Let go," I say.
He doesn't.
"Not until you listen."
I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. "That's cute," I say, and then I rip my arm free. "But no."
Miras steps closer. "Cherie—"
That name.
That name.
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I react.
The force of my power slams into him before I even register the intent behind it. Miras stumbles back a step, sucking in a sharp breath, his hand flying to his chest like he's trying to steady something inside of him.
Imani stiffens, his whole body locking up, but he doesn't move. Neither does my father.
For a long second, the only sound is the distant hum of the city outside, the ever-present reminder that the world still moves, still breathes, even as this moment shatters.
Miras straightens slowly, lifting his gaze to meet mine.
There's no anger there. No fear.
Just pain.
I expect him to snap. To yell. To fight.
He doesn't.
He just looks at me—really looks at me—and says, "That was the first time you used your power against me."
I say nothing.
He takes a slow breath. "You really don't care, do you?"
I smile, slow and sharp. "Not even a little."
I don't get far before Imani speaks again.
"Maybe it's time we talked about you going back to school."
I stop mid-step. Slowly, I turn my head, giving him a look so dry it could drain the ocean.
"Excuse me?"
Imani crosses his arms, unwavering. "You need some kind of normalcy. You might not care now, but you can't just—"
Miras moves before I can even process my own reaction.
"That's your plan?" His voice is sharp, incredulous. "You think throwing her back into high school is going to fix this?"
I blink, momentarily caught off guard.
Imani exhales sharply. "It's not about fixing anything, Miras. It's about giving her something to ground her—"
"She's not the same person!" Miras' voice cracks, his frustration cutting through the air like a live wire. "You keep acting like this is temporary, like she just needs some fresh air and a couple of homework assignments to snap out of it. Look at her!"
I roll my eyes. "I'm literally right here."
Neither of them acknowledge me.
"You don't know that this is permanent," Imani argues, standing his ground. "And even if it is—keeping her locked up, isolating her, pretending this never happened, none of that is going to help."
Miras clenches his fists. "Oh, and throwing her back into the place that broke her is a better option?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Do you even remember what she went through there? How they treated her? The looks, the whispers, the way she had to fight just to exist?"
Imani's jaw tightens, but he doesn't back down. "I do remember. And I remember her fighting back. I remember her standing her ground, refusing to let them define her."
Miras barks out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And where did that get her?"
The silence that follows is deep and heavy.
Imani's expression darkens. "You don't get to put that on her."
Miras steps forward. "I'm not. I'm putting it on you."
The air between them is taut, electric, buzzing with the weight of everything unsaid.
I watch them, mildly entertained. "If I knew you two were going to get into a lover's spat over me, I would've left sooner."
Both of them glare at me.
"She needs to go back to school in order to graduate—and so do you."
I glance back over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Imani. "Oh? Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
Imani exhales, slow and controlled. "It should. Like it or not, school is still a part of your life. You need to graduate. Both of you do."
Miras lets out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair like he's trying to physically restrain himself from saying something he'll regret.
"That's what you're worried about?" he asks, voice tight. "Graduation?" He turns to me, gesturing wildly. "Look at her, Imani! She doesn't care. She's not going to sit in a classroom and pretend like everything's normal."
Imani stays steady. "She doesn't have to pretend. But structure—normalcy—is what's going to help her in the long run."
Miras laughs, and it's bitter, exhausted. "That's cute. You really think she's going to wake up one morning and suddenly start giving a damn about GPA requirements?"
I sigh dramatically. "I'm standing right here."
Imani ignores me. "She needs options, Miras. And so do you. I don't know what you think you're going to do, but running after her every time she walks out of a room isn't a career path."
That lands.
Miras stiffens, jaw tight, hands clenched. "Don't."
But Imani doesn't let up. "You both need to move forward. Not just her. And throwing yourself into this, into her, like it's the only thing that matters—"
"I said don't—"
"You're going back too."
The silence that follows is instant, sharp.
Miras stares at him, disbelief flickering across his face before it hardens into something unreadable. "No," he says.
"Yes," Imani counters.
Miras shakes his head. "No, absolutely not. I'm not leaving her alone in that place."
"You think you're helping her by hovering?" Imani challenges. "You think she wants you watching her every move?"
Miras doesn't answer.
I smirk. "He's not wrong."
Miras tenses at my words, something flickering in his eyes too fast for me to catch before he turns his glare back to Imani. "You don't get to decide this."
Imani crosses his arms. "Neither do you."
Another thick silence.
Finally, Miras exhales sharply, shaking his head, his body still wound tight. He looks at me, and for the first time since this conversation started, there's something uncertain in his gaze.
Like he's searching for something in me. Like he's waiting to see if I react at all.
I just shrug. "Guess I'll see you in class."
******
The first day back is a joke.
People stare. Whispers slither through the hallways like circling vultures. Teachers fumble over their words when they call my name for attendance, like they're afraid if they say it wrong, I'll snap.
It's pathetic.
And right behind me—every step, every hallway, every second—Miras is there.
His presence is loud, even when he says nothing. I can feel him, this constant force hovering too close, making sure no one comes near, like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting.
It's exhausting.
"Is this really necessary?" I ask as I open my locker, not bothering to look at him.
Miras leans against the metal beside me, arms crossed, gaze sharp as he scans the hallway. "Yes."
I roll my eyes. "I can handle myself."
His jaw tightens. "That's not the point."
I smirk, grabbing the books I don't plan on using. "Oh? What is?"
Miras doesn't answer right away. He just keeps watching—stiff, unreadable, like he's bracing for something.
I shake my head, shutting my locker with a metallic clang. "You really think anyone here is stupid enough to try something?"
He doesn't look at me when he speaks. "I don't think, Cherie. I know."
That name.
Again.
It's like a thorn buried deep in my skin.
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the hallway, thick with saccharine venom.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the celebrity."
I don't need to turn around to know who it is.
Nakita Sanders.
Some things never change.
Miras moves instantly, stepping closer to me like a human shield, but I don't stop him. I don't react at all.
Because I don't care.
Nakita struts up, her usual group of brainless followers flanking her, all fake smiles and gleaming eyes, eager to see what will happen.
"How's it feel?" she asks, tilting her head. "Being back from the dead?"
Miras steps forward, voice low, dangerous. "Walk. Away."
Nakita just grins, her gaze flicking between us. "What, no response?" She pouts, mockingly. "Come on, Cherish. I expected something from you. You love a good fight."
I finally look at her. And when I do, I make sure she sees it.
The nothingness.
The complete and utter absence of anything.
Nakita's smile falters for half a second. Not long. But enough.
Miras notices. He steps forward again, his presence radiating a warning, his entire body coiled with restraint. "Last chance, Nakita."
She hesitates. Not because of him—because of me.
And then, she laughs. A hollow, uncertain sound.
"Wow," she muses, shaking her head. "Guess the rumors were true. You really aren't the same."
I don't answer.
I don't need to.
I just turn, walking away.
Miras follows.
The cafeteria is too loud.
It always was, but now the noise feels different. Thicker. More weighted.
I barely step through the doors before the crowd forms.
"Cherish!" A girl I vaguely remember from chemistry gasps, clutching her friend's arm. "Oh my God, it's really you."
"She looks so different," someone whispers too loudly.
"She doesn't look that different," another voice murmurs. "Just… colder."
The first question comes before I can sit down. "What happened to you?"
I blink at them. "Define what."
Another voice pipes up, eager, desperate. "Is it true you died?"
"You were in a coma, right? Like… brain dead?"
"Is it true your whole body had to be rewired?"
"Did it hurt?"
That one makes me smile, slow and sharp. I lean forward, elbows resting on the table, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make them uncomfortable.
"Of course it hurt." My voice is soft, deliberate. "They ripped me apart and put me back together. What do you think?"
Someone shifts nervously.
Another recovers faster. "So you remember all of it?"
I glance at them, my expression unreadable. "Oh, I remember everything."
The air changes.
They wanted something else—some softer, broken version of me. They don't know what to do with this.
Then, another voice—louder, more familiar.
"Alright, that's enough."
Miras.
The crowd flinches as he moves in beside me, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade. He doesn't look at me, his focus instead on the people hovering too close. His voice is quiet, controlled, but edged with something dangerous.
"You don't get to interrogate her like she's a damn science experiment." His gaze darkens. "Move."
A few students scatter immediately. Others hesitate, but when Miras glares, they think better of it.
I watch the exchange with vague amusement.
Miras finally turns to me, jaw tight. "You good?"
I tilt my head, considering. "Was this supposed to be difficult for me?"
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Something unreadable.
The silence between me and Miras stretches for days.
He still walks beside me in the halls, still sits near me in class, still watches me too closely, but the way he looks at me has changed. He isn't just frustrated anymore. He looks tired. Like I'm draining the fight out of him. Like he's running out of ways to reach me.
Good.
Because I don't want to be reached.
I go through the motions at school, barely listening, barely caring. I write just enough in my assignments to make it look like I'm participating. I show up because it's easier than fighting Imani on it. But none of it matters.
And Miras hates it.
I see it every time I let another test come back with failing marks. Every time I ignore an assignment. Every time I sit in class, staring out the window instead of taking notes.
It all comes to a head when we're leaving school, the sky dull and overcast.
"Cherish." His voice is tight, sharp.
I don't stop walking. "Hmm?"
"You didn't even try on that test."
I sigh. "So?"
"So?" Miras speeds up, stepping in front of me, forcing me to stop. His eyes are dark, searching my face like he's looking for something he already knows isn't there. "You used to care about this. You used to push yourself harder than anyone else. Where did that Cherish go?"
I smile faintly, tilting my head. "She's dead."
Something in Miras snaps.
"You don't get to say that," he hisses, stepping closer. "You don't get to joke about that after everything—after all the times I thought I'd lost you. Do you even know what that was like for me?"
I blink up at him, unimpressed. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter, Cherish!" His voice cracks, and for the first time, I see something more than just frustration in him. It's grief. It's exhaustion. It's Miras, standing in front of me, holding onto a version of me that no longer exists.
And it should make me feel something.
But I don't.
I step around him, brushing past his shoulder. "You should stop wasting your time on me."
The car ride home is silent.
Miras drives, his grip on the steering wheel too tight, his knuckles pale. I sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the city blur past. The tension in the car is thick, pressing against my skin like static before a storm.
I know he's still fuming. Still waiting for me to snap out of it.
But I won't.
The road stretches ahead, endless, suffocating. I close my eyes, letting the hum of the tires on pavement fill the empty spaces between us.
Then, finally—
"You can't keep doing this," Miras says. His voice is low, restrained, but I hear the edge beneath it.
I don't look at him. "Doing what?"
"Acting like none of this matters. Like you don't matter."
I sigh, opening my eyes, watching the reflection of the world in the glass. "Maybe it doesn't."
Miras exhales sharply through his nose. I can feel him glancing at me, even though I don't meet his eyes.
"You're lying," he mutters.
I smirk faintly, still staring at the passing buildings. "Am I?"
Miras slams his hand against the steering wheel. "Damn it, Cherish!"
That gets my attention.
I finally turn to look at him, eyebrow raised. "That's new. You don't usually lose your temper."
His jaw clenches. "You want me to just pretend everything is fine? That watching you tear yourself apart doesn't kill me?"
I tilt my head. "Why does it kill you?"
Miras grips the wheel so tightly I think it might snap. "Because I care about you. Because I—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."
I hum. "No, go on. You what?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he pulls the car into the driveway, parking a little too forcefully. The moment he turns off the engine, he presses his hands against the wheel, bowing his head, breathing deeply.
I watch him, curious.
He's unraveling.
I should feel bad. Maybe even guilty.
But I don't.
Miras lifts his head, finally looking at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say something else. Something that will make this worse.
But instead, he just sighs and opens the door. "Let's go."
I follow him into the house, knowing this isn't over.
Not even close.
The door barely clicks shut behind us before I push again.
"You never answered me."
Miras doesn't stop walking. He shrugs off his jacket, throws it over the back of the couch, and heads for the kitchen like he didn't just nearly lose control in the car. Like I didn't just poke at something raw.
I follow.
"You what, Miras?" I press, my voice smooth, deliberate. "You care about me? You what?"
He yanks open the fridge. The muscles in his back are tight, his shoulders squared. He doesn't look at me. "Drop it, Cherish."
I lean against the counter, tilting my head. "Why?"
"Because you don't care," he snaps, finally turning to face me. "That's what you keep saying, right? That nothing matters? That you don't matter?" His voice is sharp, edged with something dangerous. "So why does it even matter what I feel?"
I smirk. "It doesn't."
His jaw tightens. "Then why are you pushing?"
Because I want to see how far he'll go. Because I want to see if there's anything left in me that will react to him snapping. Because it's easier to pick at him than to sit with the emptiness in my chest.
I step closer. "Maybe I just like watching you get angry."
Miras lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah. I figured."
He slams the fridge door shut and turns fully to face me. His eyes are dark, his face set in something unreadable—but his hands tremble slightly at his sides.
I take another step. Close enough that I can hear his breathing, see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
"You used to be patient with me," I murmur, voice teasing. "What changed?"
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You did."
I lift a brow. "And you don't like it?"
Miras presses his fingers against his temples, like I'm giving him a headache. "I hate it, Cherish." His voice cracks slightly, and for some reason, that makes my chest tighten.
I should stop.
I don't.
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "Then why are you still here?"
That's it. That's the breaking point.
Miras snaps.
His hand slams onto the counter next to me, his body suddenly too close, his presence too much. His other hand fists into his hair as he glares down at me, breathing hard, his entire body taut like a wire stretched too thin.
"Because I love you, damn it!"
The words crash between us like a thunderclap.
I don't react. Not at first.
The words settle between us, heavy and raw, but they don't sink in the way they should.
He loves me?
Miras, who's been watching me like I'm a ghost of someone he used to know, who's been gripping the edges of his patience like a lifeline, trying to hold me together when I don't want to be held?
No.
No, he loves her.
The girl I used to be. The girl who fought, who cared, who felt.
I'm not her anymore.
So I do what I do best. I push.
I let the power rise in me, slow and deliberate. It hums beneath my skin, invisible, but I know Miras can feel it. The air between us shifts, charged with something electric, something wrong.
His shoulders stiffen. His breathing turns shallow.
I watch him carefully, my head tilting just slightly. "Say it again."
His jaw clenches. "What?"
"Say you love me." My voice is softer now, teasing, just on the edge of something cruel.
Miras' gaze flickers, uncertain. He knows me too well. He knows this isn't right. But he doesn't step away.
He won't.
He's too stubborn for that.
So I step forward instead. Slowly. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, hear the unsteady rhythm of his breath.
I let my power leak out, just a little. Just enough to make the air shift, to make him feel off-balance.
His muscles tighten. His fingers twitch.
He's feeling something, even if he doesn't know what.
I smirk. "You love me, Miras?"
His throat bobs. "Yes."
"Then prove it."
He blinks, startled. "What?"
I raise a hand, trailing my fingers lightly up his arm—not a touch, not really. More like a whisper of energy, just enough to make him feel. His pulse jumps beneath my fingertips.
"Fight me."
Miras flinches. His eyes widen, disbelief flashing across his face. "Cherish—"
"If you really love me," I murmur, tilting my head, "then show me. Break through this. Prove that I'm still worth saving."
His breath shudders. His hands curl into fists.
I can see the war happening inside him—the part of him that wants to drag me back to who I was, and the part that's terrified I'm already too far gone.
And I wonder—just how far can I push him?
Miras doesn't move at first.
He just stares at me, like he's trying to find something—some trace of the girl he used to know, some piece of me that still belongs to him. But there's nothing left for him to grasp. I've stripped it all away.
I let more of my power seep into the air, pressing against him like a slow-building storm. My skin tingles, my blood hums, and for the first time in weeks, I feel alive.
"You won't do it," I taunt, voice low, daring. "You can't."
Miras exhales sharply, his breath ragged.
Then he swings.
I barely have time to react before his fist comes at me—a real hit, a real attack, not just some half-hearted defense. My body twists on instinct, energy crackling through my limbs, and I sidestep just in time.
But Miras doesn't stop.
His other hand is already moving, reaching for me, trying to ground me, trying to get a grip on me like he always does—like he can pull me back if he just holds on tight enough.
I won't let him.
I let the power take control, shifting my weight, twisting out of his reach. My foot slams into his ribs, sending him stumbling back, but he doesn't hesitate. He regains his balance fast, eyes dark, jaw clenched.
This isn't like before.
This isn't training.
This isn't two people pushing each other to be better, to be stronger.
This is a fight.
And he knows it.
"Is this what you want, Cherish?" he grits out, breathing hard, shifting into a stance I recognize—one built for endurance, for holding his ground. He's not attacking anymore. He's bracing.
For me.
I smirk. "It's what you wanted, isn't it? To prove something?"
His fists tighten, and I see it then—the way his body trembles just slightly, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the way his eyes are filled with something desperate.
He doesn't want to do this.
But he will.
For me.
That realization sends a sharp thrill through my veins.
I lunge.
He catches my wrist mid-strike, but I let my energy burst outward in a controlled shock, forcing him to let go. I twist around him, grabbing the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the wall with a crack. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn't go down.
I press my forearm against his throat, leaning in.
"Come on, Miras," I whisper, feeling his pulse hammering against my skin. "Fight back."
His hands snap up, grabbing my arm, but he doesn't shove me away. He could. He should.
But instead, he looks at me like he's seeing a stranger.
And that—that look—sends an unexpected ache through me.
"You think this is proving something?" His voice is raw, strained. "You think hurting me will make you feel something again?"
I grin, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Maybe."
Miras swallows, his throat moving beneath my arm. "Then do it."
My grip falters. Just slightly.
"Do it, Cherish," he repeats, softer this time. His hands tighten around my arm, not to fight me, but to hold me there. "Break me."
The words slam into me like a weight I wasn't expecting.
And suddenly, my hands feel too heavy.
The power inside me stirs, hungry, waiting, urging me to push further.
Miras doesn't move right away.
He stays where I left him, back pressed against the wall, hands still curled like he's bracing for another hit. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, his eyes locked on mine—dark, searching, pleading.
I can still feel the ghost of my power humming between us, a static charge lingering in the air. My hands twitch at my sides. It would be so easy to reach for it again. To finish what I started.
To break him.
I take a slow step forward.
Miras doesn't flinch. He just watches me, waiting. Daring me.
I smile. "You're still standing."
His lips press into a thin line. "Not for long, if you get your way."
I hum in amusement, lifting a hand, letting my fingers hover just near his face—close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin, close enough that my power stirs again, ready, waiting.
I could do it.
One push, one real surge of energy, and I could knock him down. Break him.
I could see how far he bends before he snaps.
Miras swallows, and for the first time, I see the flicker of something in his eyes—something unsure.
It's not fear.
Not yet.
But it could be.
I let my fingers trail down, stopping just over his pulse. His heartbeat thunders beneath my touch, and something about that—it sends a thrill through me.
I press down, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough to make my point.
His breath stutters.
"I could ruin you," I murmur, tilting my head.
Miras exhales through his nose. "Then do it."
The challenge in his voice is quiet, but it's there.
I press harder, power curling at my fingertips, sinking just beneath his skin, forcing a reaction. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't move.
So I push harder.
Miras gasps. His hand snaps up, grabbing my wrist, but he doesn't shove me away—he just holds on, like he's trying to ground himself against the feeling.
And God, it's intoxicating.
The way his body shudders under my touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his grip on me tightens like he doesn't know if he wants to pull me closer or push me away.
I could take something from him.
I could take everything.
The thought sends a rush through me, and I let the power rise further, watching as Miras' knees start to buckle, as his fingers dig harder into my wrist—
"Enough."
A force slams into me before I can even register what's happening, knocking the air from my lungs, ripping me away from Miras.
I hit the ground hard, my back colliding with the floor, the shock snapping me out of the haze in my mind.
I blink.
Imani stands over me, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious breaths, his hands still humming with the remnants of the energy he just used to throw me back.
I smirk, shifting onto my elbows. "That was dramatic."
Imani's eyes burn into me. "You almost killed him."
I glance toward Miras, who's still slumped against the wall, arms braced against his thighs as he tries to catch his breath. He's shaking, his fingers twitching like his body hasn't quite caught up to what just happened.
But he's alive.
Barely.
I shrug. "He wanted me to."
Imani lets out a sharp breath, shoving a hand through his hair. "God, Cherish, what is wrong with you?"
I push myself up, tilting my head. "That's a loaded question."
Imani's jaw tightens like he wants to say more, but he holds back. Instead, he storms past me, crouching in front of Miras, checking him over.
I watch the way Miras still hasn't looked away from me.
Still watching me like I matter.
Even now.
Even after this.
The realization sends an unexpected flicker of something through me. It feels like static, like interference, like a song cutting out mid-chorus.
I hate it.
So I stand, brushing myself off, and turn to leave.
But before I can take a step, Miras speaks.
"What did you feel?"
I stop.
Slowly, I glance over my shoulder. "What?"
Miras is still struggling to catch his breath, but his gaze is locked onto me, unwavering.
"What did you feel when you almost broke me?" His voice is hoarse, raw. "Tell me, Cherish. Tell me the truth."
I roll my shoulders, forcing indifference into my tone. "Power."
He shakes his head. "That's not all."
I smirk. "Isn't it?"
Miras leans forward slightly, expression unreadable. "You hesitated."
I don't answer.
I don't have to.
We both know the truth.
Even now, even with all this power, with all the ways I've changed—
There's still something inside me that won't let me break him.
And Miras?
He's not letting that go.
The argument starts the moment Imani brings it up.
"She's dangerous," Imani says, his voice hard, unrelenting. "You felt it, Miras. You know what she's capable of now."
Miras glares at him, still leaning against the couch where I left him after our fight, arms crossed over his chest like he's trying to hold himself together. The bruises haven't even had time to fully bloom, and yet—he's still fighting for me.
"She's always been dangerous," he snaps. "That doesn't mean you get to put a leash on her."
Imani exhales sharply, pacing the length of the room. "She almost killed you, Miras. And you know she would've, if I hadn't stepped in."
Miras flinches, just barely, but it's enough. Imani sees it. I see it.
But Miras shakes his head. "No. She wouldn't have."
Imani scoffs. "You can't honestly believe that."
Miras pushes himself off the couch, standing unsteadily. "She hesitated. You saw it."
Imani's expression hardens. "And next time?"
Miras freezes.
Imani steps closer, lowering his voice. "Next time, she won't hesitate, Miras. Next time, there won't be anything left of you."
I sit in the corner of the room, watching this unfold like it's some kind of stage play written just for me. I should be annoyed. Bored. Amused.
But instead—
Something flickers in my chest. Something sharp.
I don't like it.
I don't like the way Imani speaks about me, like I'm some kind of creature that needs to be contained. Like I'm less than I was before.
I am Cherish.
I'm just better.
And yet—
Miras, bruised and battered, is standing between me and the man trying to rip my control away.
It's pathetic.
It's infuriating.
"I don't need you to fight my battles, Miras." My voice cuts through the room, making them both tense.
Miras turns to look at me, something unreadable flashing through his eyes. "I know."
I tilt my head. "Then why are you doing it?"
Miras exhales, like he doesn't even have an answer to that himself.
Imani steps in before he can speak. "Because he's a fool." His eyes bore into me, cold, calculating. "And you'll get him killed."
A slow smile spreads across my lips. "Then let him die."
Miras tenses.
Imani's expression darkens.
But I don't care.
Because the second Imani tries to put a cage around me—
I'll burn my way out.
Imani turns to me, his eyes sharp, calculating. He looks like he's testing something, pushing at the edges to see if I'll break.
But I won't.
Not anymore.
His voice is steady when he asks, "Did you like it?"
I arch a brow. "Like what?"
His jaw tightens. "Hurting him." His gaze flickers to Miras, then back to me. "Did you like seeing him in pain?"
Miras shifts beside him, his breathing uneven, like he's bracing himself for my answer.
I let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle between us.
And then—
"Yes."
Miras closes his eyes for half a second, like he already knew, but hearing it out loud still cuts.
Imani exhales through his nose, like he's trying to hold back whatever anger is bubbling under the surface. "Of course you did."
I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. "Why ask if you already knew?"
"Because I wanted to hear you say it." His voice is low, controlled, but I can feel the barely contained frustration there. "I wanted to know if there was even a piece of you that regretted it."
I smile. "There isn't."
Miras lets out a slow breath, his knuckles white where his hands are clenched at his sides. He won't look at me now.
Interesting.
Imani studies me for a long moment. "You really are gone, aren't you?"
Gone.
I roll the word around in my mind, feeling the way it settles.
No.
Not gone.
Changed.
Stronger.
Better.
I hold his stare, unflinching. "Maybe you just never knew me at all."
Miras finally looks at me, his eyes searching, like he's trying to find something—someone—who isn't there anymore. I wonder how long it will take for him to realize she's never coming back.
Imani is the first to move. He exhales sharply, his patience clearly stretched thin. "Fine," he mutters. "You want honesty? Let's be honest, then."
He takes a step closer, voice low, measured. "You enjoyed hurting him. But did you feel anything else, Cherish?" He tilts his head, studying me. "Did it make you feel alive? Did it make you feel powerful?"
I just smile.
I don't answer—because he already knows.
Imani huffs out a bitter laugh. "Right. Of course." He runs a hand down his face, like he's exhausted, like I'm exhausting him. Then his voice hardens. "You are dangerous."
Miras bristles. "Imani—"
"She needs to hear it," Imani snaps, not looking away from me. "You need to hear it. Because this—" He gestures toward me, toward the space between us. "—this isn't strength, Cherish. This is loss."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"No," Imani says, and for the first time tonight, his voice isn't angry. It's something else. Something closer to pity. "It's supposed to warn you."
Something in me flares.
I hate that look. That tone.
I step toward him, slow and deliberate, feeling the hum of power beneath my skin. "I don't need your warnings."
Imani doesn't move, doesn't flinch. "Maybe not now," he says quietly. "But one day, you might."
I open my mouth to throw something sharp back at him, but Miras steps between us before I get the chance.
"Enough," he says, his voice rough. "Both of you." His gaze flicks between us, frustrated, exhausted. "We're done with this conversation."
Imani shakes his head but doesn't argue. "Not even close," he mutters. Then, to me: "Get some rest, Cherish. You'll need it."
I don't ask why.
I already know.
Tomorrow, they'll try again.
To control me. To fix me.
I smile to myself as I turn away.
Let them try.
The morning comes too soon.
I don't sleep. Not really. I close my eyes, but my mind hums with too much energy, my body too attuned to the power flowing beneath my skin. It doesn't burn the way it used to. No, this isn't something I have to fight against anymore.
It's mine.
And when Imani enters my room, Miras trailing behind him with a tense, unreadable expression, I already know what's coming.
Imani doesn't waste time.
"We're doing this today." His voice is sharp, decisive. Like he's already made up his mind and I don't have a say in it.
I stretch my arms over my head lazily, tilting my head. "Doing what, exactly?"
Miras shifts slightly beside him, but he doesn't interrupt.
Imani narrows his eyes. "You know what."
I do.
And I smile.
They want to strip me down. Cut me open, take this piece of me and shove it back into whatever box they think it belongs in.
But they don't understand.
There is no box anymore.
I stand, slow and deliberate. "Alright." I let my fingers trail along the edge of the desk as I move, every step calculated. "You want to fix me?" I meet Imani's gaze. "Go ahead."
For just a second, hesitation flickers in his expression.
He masks it well. But I see it.
Good.
I take another step toward them, close enough now that the air hums with the tension between us.
Then I let go.
The energy inside me surges outward, fast and relentless. The room shakes with it, the very walls vibrating as the force ripples through the air.
Miras stumbles back, his breath catching.
Imani stands his ground, but his jaw tightens, his muscles coiled. He's preparing for something, waiting for me to make the next move.
So I do.
I lift a hand, fingers curling just slightly—
And Imani drops to his knees.
Not because I force him to. Not physically.
But because the very air around him shifts, the pressure crushing.
His breaths come faster now, his hands bracing against the floor as he struggles to stay upright.
Miras moves toward me, reaching out like he's about to stop me, but I flick my wrist and the air slams him back, pinning him against the wall.
He lets out a sharp, startled sound, struggling against the force, his head snapping toward me in shock.
"Cherie—"
I smile. "Still think you can control me?"
Neither of them answers.
They can't.
Because in this moment, I hold them both in my hands.
And I squeeze.
Not enough to kill. Not enough to break.
Just enough to remind them.
They will never touch this power.
They will never put a leash on me.
And if they try—
I will burn them for it.
The room is silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing.
Imani is still on his knees, his hands pressed against the floor like he's trying to ground himself, like he's fighting the weight I've pressed onto him. Miras, pinned against the wall, struggles but doesn't fight as hard. He's staring at me—watching me—but I don't know what he's looking for.
I don't care.
I take a step closer. The air thrums with my power, bending to my will, shifting at my command. I could end this in a second. I could crush them if I wanted to.
They know it.
And still, Imani glares up at me, his expression tight with defiance. "You're proving my point, Cherish." His voice is strained, but steady. "You are dangerous."
I tilt my head. "And what does that make you?"
Imani exhales, forcing his back straight even under the pressure I keep on him. "Someone who's trying to help you."
I laugh. It's cold, empty. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
He doesn't answer.
Miras shifts against the wall, his breath uneven. "Cherie," he says quietly. There's something in his voice—something that shouldn't make me hesitate, shouldn't make me feel—but it does.
And I hate it.
So I push harder.
Miras gasps, the air around him tightening like an invisible hand pressing against his ribs.
He closes his eyes for half a second, then forces them open, looking right at me. Through me.
"Go on," he says, barely above a whisper. "Finish it."
The challenge in his voice is soft, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
I should.
I should.
But—
Something flickers in my chest. A hollow, sharp ache.
It makes me angry.
I release them both in a single, violent pulse of energy.
Imani collapses forward, bracing his hands against the floor, coughing as he catches his breath. Miras slides down the wall, head dropping forward as he exhales shakily.
I don't move.
Neither do they.
Finally, Imani looks up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His expression is unreadable.
"You don't scare me," he says, voice rough.
I smile, sharp and unkind. "Then you're a fool."
The hall is silent as I walk through it. My pulse is steady, my breathing even, but inside, something thrums. Not just power—satisfaction.
They tried to break me. Tried to contain me.
Now they know the truth.
I own this power. I am this power.
And they can't do a damn thing about it.
I make it down the stairs before I hear footsteps behind me. Slow. Heavy. Controlled.
Miras.
I don't stop.
"Cherie." His voice is quiet, but there's a weight to it.
I ignore him.
He catches up, falling into step beside me. I expect him to grab my wrist, to try and force me to stop. He doesn't.
Instead, he just watches me.
I can feel his gaze, the same way I can feel the shift in the air between us. The same way I felt it last night when I almost broke him.
"You liked it."
It's not a question.
I smirk. "I did."
His jaw tightens. He's silent for a few steps, and then—
"What did it feel like?"
I slow, just a little. Turn my head toward him. "What?"
Miras stops walking, forcing me to either stop too or keep moving without him. I stop.
His eyes burn into mine, dark and unreadable. "When you were holding me there. When you were crushing the air out of my lungs." His voice is steady, but there's something beneath it. Something raw. "What did it feel like?"
I take a step closer, just enough to erase the space between us. He doesn't move back.
The corner of my lips curve up. "It felt good."
Miras exhales through his nose, slow and measured. His hands clench at his sides.
I tilt my head, studying him. Waiting.
For anger. For pain. For anything.
Instead, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Like he's confirming something to himself.
"Good," he says.
I blink.
He turns and walks away.
And for the first time since waking up as this version of myself, I don't know how to react.