Jaune stood motionless in the dim locker room, his fist throbbing—a distant, inconsequential pain against the crushing emptiness of the silence around him.
The lights flickered, then dimmed, their fading glow swallowed by the encroaching fingers of darkness.
Jaune found himself caught between two worlds—the one he couldn't remember, and the one he refused to accept. He was not nothing.
The soft hum of the building was the only thing keeping him tethered to this place, to something real.
Initiation was tomorrow. Everyone else seemed ready, filled with self-assurance that Jaune couldn't relate with. But him? He wasn't sure he even belonged in this world anymore.
His gaze flickered to the dent mark on the locker door, the twisted metal reflecting judgment. The lights flickered once more and then shut off entirely, leaving him in the cloak of night.
He ran his hand through his hair. Feeling more lost than ever, the knot in his throat hampered his breath. Everything inside him felt like it was spinning, caught in a current too strong to escape. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run far away, to be anywhere but here.
Become the best Huntsman he could be? A hero? Who was he fooling? He couldn't even name the person behind his own eyes.
But no matter how hard he tried to will himself into action, his body remained frozen.
In the silence, a subtle feeling stirred within him, a whisper just out of reach. Pushing him, gently, subtly, like the softest whisper at the back of his soul.
Stay
Jaune turned back to the locker, his heart heavy, and slowly reached for the handle once more. With a protesting creak, the door opened.
The emptiness inside the locker hit him again—nothing but the folded pajamas, crisp and impersonal, lying in stark contrast against the grey steel.
Jaune stripped down. Shoes, socks, hoodie, shirt, pants, until he was left in his boxers. Then without bothering to check if he was truly alone, he pulled them down too.
For a long moment, he studied his body, his gaze flicking from his chest to his legs, searching for any clue—any sign—that would help him piece together the person he once was.
His chest was toned, defined muscles beneath pale skin—years of exercise reflected in the solid strength of his body, but it felt... empty. Like something earned by another, not him. He had no doubt it was strong, capable. But it felt like a stranger's body. Even the muscles, the contours, seemed foreign to him, belonging to someone who had lived another life, someone he would never know.
His gaze moved lower, tracing the sharp lines of his abdomen, the smooth ridges of his abs. Perfectly sculpted, a physical achievement. Yet again, there was no satisfaction in it. His body didn't carry any history, no trace of struggle or triumph, just smooth, flawless skin. No battle scars. No marks of past pain. His skin was as untouched as his memory. A blank slate.
Jaune's gaze dropped further, past his waist, down to his legs. His thighs were thick with muscle, built for speed, strength. Each muscle group was well-developed, and once more there was no ownership in them. Just the same, disconnected feeling that ran through every part of his body. He flexed his legs, testing their strength. They held firm, but his mind didn't register the connection. He didn't feel them as his.
And then, his eyes drifted further. His eyes fell on the flaccid, lifeless form of his penis, hanging there between his legs. It seemed to mirror the rest of him. Listless. It was there, but it didn't feel like it was part of his identity. No pride, no significance. It was just another body part, like the muscles, like the skin—just an object without meaning.
He lingered for a moment, looking at himself in his most raw state, willing to see some reflection of who he was. But there was nothing. No tattoos. No scars. No distinguishing marks to tie him to a past, to a life. Just flesh and bone, a body that moved and breathed. His heart grew heavier as he stood there, exposed, trapped in his own skin.
Jaune turned his head slightly, letting himself wallow into the hollow sensation deep within him. There was no story, no meaning in it. He wanted to know where he'd been, who had touched him, what trials or marks should be his. But nothing came to him.
He stood there, bare and vulnerable, for what felt like hours. Unaware of the force at work within him.
A tremor ran through his body, but he didn't resist. Finally, with the heaviness of sorrow, Jaune reached for the school-issued pajamas. His movements were slow, deliberate—each action a reluctant acceptance, filled with a quiet, unspoken resignation. The foreign fabric scratched against his skin.
He stood there for a moment longer, the weight of uncertainty pressing in on him from all sides.
Then, Jaune felt a strange kind of clarity, one that had eluded him since he woke up on that airship. There was no turning back now. The only way out was forward, even if he had no idea where it would lead. With a deep breath, he gave one last, fleeting glance at the empty locker and walked toward the ballroom
Faint hallway lights greeted Jaune as he stepped out of the locker room, the sterile scent of Beacon's corridors clinging faintly to his senses. He moved slowly, pajama pants swishing lightly with each step. The academy was still and silent.
By the time he returned to the ballroom, the lights had been dimmed to near darkness. Dozens of sleeping bags and blankets dotted the room like little islands in a muted sea. Peaceful breathing and the occasional shift or sigh filled the space, a hush of warmth and dreams far removed from the turmoil that churned inside him.
Then he spotted a corner near the far wall—tucked away behind a decorative pillar and half-shielded by the curve of a long bench. Quiet. Forgotten. Isolated. He padded silently across the floor and folded himself down, sitting with his back to the wall, arms resting limply on his knees.
He should've felt exhausted after such a long day. Emotionally, he was threadbare. But his body was alert, humming with an energy that didn't match the weariness in his chest. Some inner current buzzed beneath his skin, keeping his muscles taut and ready. His heart beat stable, untroubled by fatigue. There was no ache behind his eyes, no heaviness in his limbs.
He ran a hand down his arm, fingers brushing skin that felt neither hot nor cold. His breath came steady, clear. Despite everything—the trauma, the disorientation, the locker room breakdown—he felt perfectly... awake.
'Why?'
He frowned. Silence answering him.
Or so he thought.
"You're not sleeping either."
The voice came from a dark corner, faint and relaxed, yet startling enough to make Jaune jerk his head up. His eyes searched the gloom instinctively—until the thrum inside responded first.
A pulse. A shift.
The world shimmered.
A deep-toned drone rose in his ears, and his vision sharpened instantly. For a moment, the shadows peeled back like veils, every detail rendered with surreal clarity—the glint of moonlight on sleeping bags, the individual fibers in the carpet, the subtle rise and fall of a girl sitting cross-legged atop a crate near the far wall.
The girl who'd pulled him from Weiss's line of fire. Who'd practically dared him to look at her incredible… assness.
Blake.
She didn't move, didn't startle. She had already been watching him.
And Jaune…
He blinked.
And suddenly, her expression changed—eyes widening just slightly, her posture going alert. Jaune could feel something shift in himself too, a dull awareness at the edge of his consciousness: something in him had activated.
"Your eyes," she murmured.
Jaune froze.
"Black and gold?"
Even as he asked, he felt it—his pupils stretching unnaturally, iris brightening. The air around him thickened, as if recoiling from whatever just sparked awake inside.
Blake didn't speak right away. But she didn't seem afraid.
"It's dark in here," she said softly. "Most people wouldn't see it. But I can."
He realized then—she wasn't squinting. Her gaze was steady. Focused. A flicker of golden light bounced off her amber eyes, catlike and faintly reflective.
"I can see in the dark," she added, her voice still calm. "And you can too… Semblance?"
There was no pain, no visible distortion. Just the strange warmth that clung to his chest, to his spine.
Without any real answers, Jaune just agreed. "Semblance."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
He looked down, blinking hard, trying to will whatever had happened to stop—until he caught the faintest reflection in the window's glass. And for the first time… he saw them. His eyes, indeed, were no longer blue. They weren't anything that belonged to what little he thought he was.
Auric brilliance burned where his irises should be—unyielding, impossibly true, like a promise meant to bind what could never be broken.
Yet that light sat within stygian voids, as if an eclipse had made a home in him, but could not claim the core.
He didn't remember if this was what his eyes were supposed to look like.
But this—
He'd never seen them before, and yet… they didn't surprise him.
As if the gold had always been waiting to break free.
And the black… had never blinked, lidless and patient.
'What am I?'
But then fabric rustled. Blake stood and padded closer, quiet as a shadow. She moved without fear, her steps slow and deliberate, until she stood just a few feet away from him.
Jaune looked up.
Her voice was quieter now, barely more than a whisper. "Company?"
He didn't answer. And she didn't press.
Instead, she simply sat down beside him, close enough that their knees nearly brushed, her hands resting in her lap.
Looking for any kind of distraction, Jaune asked, "So what are you still doing up?"
"Reading my book," Blake gave an exasperated sigh. "I wasn't able to earlier due to some… unforeseen personalities."
Jaune let out a puff, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah. That got… intense."
A pause stretched between them. Then, with some hesitation, he added, "Back in the locker room… thanks, by the way. For stepping in."
Blake tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable in the dark. She didn't answer right away.
She remembered that moment all too well.
Blake felt his eyes before she ever turned her head.
There was a stillness to the air around him—like the poor guy had forgotten how to think. It was subtle, but she was Faunus. Her senses picked up everything. The change in his breathing. The sudden tension in the silence behind her. The unmistakable rigidity of someone trying very hard not to look… and failing spectacularly.
And so, she gave him something to look at.
Her pants had already been halfway down. All it took was a slow lean forward, a little arch in her back, a stretch of muscle. Nothing overt. Nothing spoken. Just movement—the kind that carried heat without ever having to touch.
After all, she knew how good her ass looked.
The fabric of her thong shifted between her cheeks as she bent over—tight, thin, and purposeful. The lighting caught the angles of her spine, the dip of her waist, the curve of muscle carved from years of discipline.
She didn't do it for attention. She didn't need it.
But control? That, she liked.
And Jaune... Jaune had looked at her like he'd just discovered gravity. Like she wasn't just a body, but a mystery. His eyes had been hungry. Reverent. Overwhelmed. It made something deep in her belly squeeze.
She'd felt his gaze crawl across her skin. Hesitant. Almost apologetic. Deliciously guilty.
He hadn't just ogled. He'd worshipped —and then hated himself for it. And that, more than anything, told her what kind of person he was.
So when she looked back—just for a second—and caught his wide-eyed, red-faced panic, she didn't smirk or tease.
She let him have the moment.
She gave it to him.
Because in a room full of pride and posture and peacocking strength, he was the only one too honest to hide his reaction.
And she found that… interesting.
Then Weiss had opened her mouth.
Of course she had.
Cold words, sharp as glass. Dismissive. Entitled. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to belittle. It took Blake all of two sentences to recognize the tone—she'd grown up hearing it. In news reports. From corporate execs. From guards in uniform pretending they weren't smiling as they dragged families out of their homes.
Weiss didn't speak like a student. She spoke like the daughter of the people who kept Faunus beneath their boot.
Schnee.
That name still left a bad taste in her mouth.
Blake could have walked away. Should have, maybe. She didn't need to get involved. But there was something about the way Weiss spoke to Jaune—like he was dirt. An error in the system. Like his existence was a problem that needed correcting.
It reminded her of other things. Worse things.
And that stirred something in her chest.
She told herself it wasn't about him. Not really. It was about the principle. About pushing back when that kind of superiority reared its head. But deep down, she couldn't pretend the look on Jaune's face hadn't done something to her. That small, honest spark in him—confused, embarrassed, trying to stay respectful even as Weiss pressed him down—it stuck with her.
She'd shown him her ass, for crying out loud.
Granted, he didn't know she was a Faunus, but even as a girl, he didn't look at her as something to conquer.
He'd looked at her like she had a real worth .
And so when Weiss turned that same sharpened tongue on him, cutting and cruel and clinical, Blake bristled. She didn't owe him anything. She hadn't expected to care this much. Not over a boy who'd barely said three words to her. But after that moment between them…
It felt personal.
Blake tilted her head slightly, amber eyes flickering in the low light. "It wasn't about stepping in. It was about speaking up."
He glanced over, cautious. "Still. You didn't have to say anything. And the way Weiss was—"
"She was wrong," Blake cut in softly. "And too loud about it."
He smiled faintly, then scratched the back of his neck. "Also, uh… earlier. Before all that. I, um…"
Blake didn't move. Expectant. Patient.
"…I might have seen more than I meant to."
This time, she turned her head slightly, regarding him. "You mean you stared."
Jaune's ears burned. "I—Yeah. That. I didn't mean to, really. I was just looking for my locker, and then, well… there you were."
He braced for judgment. A glare. Maybe even a slap.
Instead, Blake's lips quirked upward—barely, but undeniably. Her voice remained calm. "You weren't exactly subtle."
His heart rate increased.
"I'm… sorry," he said quickly.
Blake looked forward again, eyes fixed on the moonlit floor. "I'm not."
That made him blink.
"I train hard. I take care of my body. I don't hide that. If someone notices…" She shrugged gently. "That's their choice."
Jaune stared at her for a long second, something turning over in his chest. Not lust. Not quite. Something… weightier. She hadn't just accepted his mistake. She'd understood it. Met it with confidence instead of shame.
"But," she added, finally looking at him again, "if you're going to stare, try to blink once in a while. You looked like you were about to fall over."
Jaune laughed under his breath. "Yeah. I… might have."
Their eyes met—amber and gold—and lingered. Something unspoken passed between them.
Then she looked away, and the spell broke.
"…What's it about?"
"Huh?" Blake blinked, then glanced away, as if caught doing something she hadn't meant to admit.
"Your book. Does it have a name?"
"Well, I-It's about a man with two souls. Each fighting for control of his body." She hesitated. "It's… complicated."
Jaune tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I've got time. Not like I'm going anywhere."
That earned a huff from her.
"It's just a story," she said.
"Old. Really old. Nobody even knows who wrote it anymore since it's not exactly popular reading. Plus, half the copies contradict each other.These days it's passed around like a cautionary tale—dark, dramatic, symbolic. I'm sure most people think it's just some tragic fantasy."
"And you don't?"
Blake gave a faint shrug.
"I think it's probably nonsense. But it's well written."
Jaune waited.
She shifted a little, folding her arms over her knees. "It's about a man. A hunter. Just a regular person at first, until something happens to him. Something… violent. He survives, but not as himself. Whoever he was before, he isn't anymore."
Her voice faltered for a beat.
"He's taken. Changed. Not in a way people see. Not at first."
Jaune frowned.
"You mean… a curse? Possession?"
Blake gave a shaky nod.
"Sort of. The original texts don't pull their punches. They describe what happened to him in full, graphic detail. The kind of thing you don't forget after reading."
Jaune frowned slightly. "Like… what do you mean?"
She went quiet for a second.
"The change wasn't just magical or spiritual. It was… invasive, in a way that shouldn't have been. The kind of horror that doesn't shout—it slithers. Deep and relentless, until there's nothing left to fight with."
She swallowed once, her tone carefully level.
"Most modern versions skip that part," she added. "They sanitize it. Make him a tragic antihero. Or just a monster-of-the-week. But the oldest ones…"
Her eyes flicked away again. Something cold, distant settled behind them.
"They don't just talk about what he became. They show what was done to him. How he was… corrupted."
"Corrupted?" Jaune echoed, his voice softer now.
Her throat tightened. She kept her face calm.
"Anyway, after that… he's not the same. He thinks it's madness at first. He starts hearing this voice inside him. Not words exactly—more like urges. It tells him to fight, to kill, to survive at any cost. And sometimes… he lets it out."
"Doesn't seem good. Why would he let it out at all?" Jaune asked.
"Because it makes him stronger," Blake said. "Because sometimes it saves people. Because he doesn't know how to live without it anymore."
"And the other part of him?" Jaune asked.
"That's the part that's still him, in some way," Blake sighed. "The part that remembers who he was before. What's left of his soul tries to hold on."
Blake exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor.
"There's this line… I remember it because it disturbed me the first time I read it. 'He was made into a mouth for the will of another. And it fed through him.' "
Jaune blinked, not fully grasping it. "That's… intense."
"That's the light version."
Blake turned her head, studying the moonlight across the far wall. She folded her arms across her knees, her voice quiet now.
"But people don't read it like that. It's like a myth. A fable about power and corruption. No one really talks about what was done to him. Just what he became."
A beat passed.
"There are parts of the story I don't like," she admitted. "Not just what he became. But how it started. What was done to him first—before the change ever took hold."
Her voice dropped lower.
"The early passages… they don't describe it like a fight. Or ritual. More like…"
She hesitated, trying to find the right words.
"Like someone being… prepared . Not just for control. But for something else. "
Her eyes flicked away again, expression closing slightly. "I skip those parts now. They're… not easy."
Another pause.
"Some stories make monsters out of blood and steel. Others… make them from silence."
She didn't elaborate. And Jaune, mercifully, didn't ask.
"So… What happens to him?"
Blake shrugged faintly. "He's still fighting, last I read."
Jaune pressed, "Okay but like… Do you know how it ends?"
Blake shrugged again. "Depends on which version you read. Some say he burns. Some say he becomes something else entirely and just… keeps going. Alone."
Blake took a shaky breath, then continued.
"Some versions say he wins. Others… that he disappears and that he's still out there. Wandering. Forgotten. Just a man with two souls, waiting to lose the last of the one that mattered. Becoming the myth. A cautionary tale."
Slowly exhaling, Blake went on
"I've always thought it was just a story. One of those bygone, dramatic tragedies meant to scare children or teach people not to chase forbidden power. But..."
She stopped herself, then shook her head.
"I'm sure the original had a point. But time turned it into just another fairytale from an era before Aura was understood. It's the message that matters more than anything factual."
She turned her head somewhat, giving him a sidelong glance. "Why so interested?"
"I guess…" Jaune swallowed, forcing a thin smile. "I just like stories where the good guy's still in the fight. Your book sounds like one hell of a tale."
Blake's voice dropped to a murmur. "It is."
A lull.
"But it's not one you talk about in polite company."
Blake let the words hang in the air and didn't look at him.
Quietude stretched between them. She could feel the tension in his posture ease, could sense he hadn't understood what she hadn't said. That was a relief. And a shame.
She didn't know why she'd brought Heresiarch up. She rarely did. Most people didn't react well to it. Either they mocked it—called it edgy nonsense—or they asked questions Blake didn't feel like answering.
She could've told him the entire truth. That the man in the story wasn't corrupted—he was broken down. Torn apart piece by piece, in every way that mattered. His body, his identity… his sense of self. Again and again.
Hollowed out until his soul stopped recognizing itself. Until it couldn't tell where he ended and the thing that took root inside him began.
She'd read those passages more times than she cared to admit. Because she couldn't look away.
Because in hushed moments, when she was honest with herself, she saw something familiar in those pages. Not literally. Not exactly. But enough to see pieces of herself reflected back.
Still… she wasn't about to tell him that.
She wasn't ready to see how he'd look at her if he knew what that story really meant to her.
Not yet.
So she gave him the watered-down version. The respectable version.
And he'd accepted it without question.
That made her feel… safer.
And a little bit guilty.
Without thinking, she shifted. Just a small lean—closer to him. Not quite enough to touch. But enough that the edge of her knee brushed his.
She didn't move away.
If anything, her body settled there, placid and still.
She told herself it was nothing. Just space. Just proximity.
But her breath had caught for a moment, and her ears—beneath the bow—twitched before she settled them.
Jaune didn't speak. Didn't look at her. He just stayed beside her.
Warm. Solid. Silent.
Jaune didn't move when her knee brushed his.
The contact was light—accidental, maybe. Or maybe not. But she didn't pull away. He never knew with her.
She didn't fill the void. She just sat with it. With him.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
He let his eyes drift closed, not to sleep, but just to feel.
To remember this—This strange calm. This quiet moment.
The storm inside him hadn't vanished. But maybe, unlike the man in her story…
He wouldn't have to face it alone. Not always.
She had fallen asleep somewhere in the stillness, her head dipped gently against his shoulder. Jaune remained awake, steady and silent, watching the night exhale its final breath. As the darkness thinned, pale strands of light began to weave through the edges of the sky, and the horizon bloomed with the quiet promise of morning.
Blake stirred, woken by the clumsy shuffling of bodies, the rustle of blankets, the faint clicks of weapons being carefully reassembled nearby, her senses waking before her mind.
The room was bathed in a cool silver haze, the windows filtering in the earliest breath of day.
The warmth beside her was the first thing she noticed—not her blanket, but a presence. Her head had drifted against his shoulder sometime during the night. She only realized it as she gently leaned away.
Jaune.
Still slumped against the wall, his posture loose, mouth parted slightly in what looked like sleep. His golden hair was tousled, a few strands falling over his brow.
He looked... peaceful.
And fragile, in a way she didn't expect. Like something that had barely held itself together long enough to see morning.
Blake stayed still. She didn't want to wake him. Whatever haunted him the night before—whatever weight he carried—he'd earned this moment of quiet.
Then came footsteps shuffling loudly . Two pairs. Light and familiar.
"Sis," Ruby whispered, somewhere just past the curve of the pillar. "He's still out. Should we…?"
"Oh, come on," Yang replied, her voice pitched unmistakably mischievous. "It's already sunrise. Time to rise and shine, blondie. Maybe he dreams about me and I can fulfill a prophecy or something."
Blake glanced up, face impassive, voice stern. "Don't."
Yang rounded the pillar. Her gaze landed on the two of them and froze. Her smirk faltered for just a second.
"Well, well," she said, voice a little too light. "Look at you two. Snuggling up like stray kittens."
"Don't," Blake gave Yang a flat look, clearly not amused.
Yang's grin sharpened. "I mean, you're not denying it."
Ruby peeked around next, one brow raised. "Is he fine?" She asked with a quiver. It wasn't just a question. It was a check-in. A gentle assessment.
"He can still be," Blake subtly bit.
Yang's eyes gleamed, but there was a slight edge to her teasing. "Ooooh. Getting awfully maternal, aren't we?"
Not rising to the bait Blake responded flatly. "Just practical. He won't be useful if he's dead on his feet."
Yang folded her arms, squinting at Jaune. "He's really out, huh? Is he always this peaceful when he sleeps? Kinda adorable, honestly."
As she crouched beside them, Yang reached toward him, wiggling her fingers.
"Yang," Blake said again, with a little more weight this time.
Yang knelt down, grinning. "I'm just gonna poke his cheek once. Real gentle. He won't even—"
"No."
Yang hesitated. "C'mon. Just a little poke. He'll probably thank me for it."
"No."
This time, there was no mistaking the steel behind Blake's voice, giving Yang pause.
Tension curled. They stared, daring the other to yield.
Then Ruby stepped in with an urgent whisper.
"Wait," she said. "Just… wait."
Yang and Blake both turned, mildly surprised by the authority in her voice.
"I get it," she said. "We're all a little tense. We all want to make sure he's okay.
She glanced down at Jaune, something soft blooming across her face. "He… he looked tired last night. Not just 'rough day' tired."
Yang turned to her, frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. "We were all tired, Ruby."
Ruby looked at her sister—really looked. "I know. But he's not like us, Yang. He's, like, one of the only guys here."
Yang's jaw tensed. "Yeah. And now everyone's treating him like some lost puppy. Guess I'm just not used to seeing that side of people.""
Ruby blinked, confused by the sudden sharpness.
Yang sighed, brushing the tension away. "Okay, yeah. He did look like a kicked puppy yesterday."
Ruby breathed in, steadying herself.
"I just… I want him to feel safe," Ruby said, quieter now. Her hands fidgeted for a moment before she caught them and held them still.
"Because… there was this moment, when I first met him." She glanced down, a faint pink rising to her cheeks. "I was having a really bad day yesterday. I'd just made a mess of everything. I was embarrassed and flustered and—"
She smiled weakly, "—probably about to cry, honestly."
Her voice dropped lower. "But then he pulled me up. Literally. And for a second… I just… stopped."
She wasn't about to explain the heat, the scent, the pressure of his body. But her eyes still became distant, fond.
"Everything was loud, and then suddenly it wasn't. He didn't make fun of me. He just… made space for me to be me."
Her fingers curled into her sleeves. "That moment stuck with me."
She looked to her sister. "And I think… Jaune needs that, too.
Her fingers clenched tighter.
"So I want to give that back. Just for a moment."
Yang blinked, caught off guard. Her teasing faded.
"I saw him like that, too," she said, almost to herself. "Back on the airship. He looked like he was about to fall apart—and still found a way to pull himself together when I reached out."
She looked at Ruby then, her voice lower. "Knowing he did that for you, too… yeah. That tracks."
Blake didn't speak immediately.
Her eyes flicked to Jaune, just for a second.
She remembered the feel of his knee against hers. The way he listened without needing to understand everything.
"…He does that."
Yang glanced over. "Does what?"
Blake's gaze didn't move. "Makes you feel less alone."
She said it plainly. No drama. No softening. An admission wrapped in armor.
Blake's eyes pleaded, just slightly. "Let him wake up on his own. Just this time."
Yang didn't argue. She stood with a little too much energy, dusting off her pajama pants. "Fine. Let the prince sleep. But if he misses roll call when that Glynda lady shows up, I am not covering for his slow ass."
She turned sharply, walking away before anyone could read too much into her expression.
Ruby lingered.
Blake gave her a sidelong glance. "Thank you."
Ruby shook her head. "You're not wrong. But if he sleeps too long, I'll come back and knock something over. Accidentally. On purpose."
Blake nodded. "Fair."
Ruby smiled. "We'll give him five more minutes. Maybe ten."
Then, almost to herself, she added, "He'll probably need every second."
With that, she turned and followed Yang, her cloak whispering behind her as they vanished into the locker room.
Blake remained still a moment longer, watching the door until it clicked softly shut behind them.
Then she turned back to Jaune.
Still slouched. Still unmoving.
But now that the room was quiet again… something wasn't quite right.
It was the kind of stillness she associated with predators. Or people pretending to be asleep.
Too measured. Too even.
Blake's eyes narrowed slightly. She leaned in, watching for the subtle signs—muscle twitches, REM flickers, throat swallows. She didn't see any.
She tilted her head ever so slightly. Her amber gaze flicked across his face.
A long pause passed.
Then, without any particular emphasis, she murmured, "Sleep well, Jaune."
And with that, she rose, her footfalls barely a whisper as she followed the others into the locker room.
The ballroom was silent again. Morning found him in the exact same position.
At some point, he'd closed his eyes. Tried to breathe slower. To let go. To sleep.
He even wanted to dream—just to see what might rise from the cracks. A face. A name. Anything that might be clinging to the edges of some distant shore.
But nothing came. No image. Not even a false world.
Just a blank hush behind his eyelids, like staring into fog too thick to part. And beneath that murk… something lurking. Something guarding.
He hadn't slept. Not even a little. And somehow, the thought of dreaming again chilled him more than the thought of never dreaming at all. Whatever lived behind that pall—his own mind, his own past—it didn't want to be seen. And some part of him… didn't want to see it.
So he let the night pass through him like a gale through an abandoned home. Listening to the dark hold its breath.
Jaune remained still for a long moment after Blake left—longer than he intended. He didn't move. Didn't open his eyes. Just sat there in the silence, tickled by rays of the breaking dawn.
The idea was to wait for most of the girls to finish changing in the locker room. He didn't want a repeat of what happened. Furthermore, he wanted to avoid any further teasing, so he pretended to be asleep.
He wasn't expecting their conversation.
It wasn't pity he'd sensed. It was care. Concern. Tentative things he didn't know how to accept. Yang, Blake, Ruby… all hovering in their own ways.
And Blake.
She'd known he was awake.
She hadn't said anything. Just whispered, Sleep well, like she was handing him a secret. It felt too intimate for what they were—strangers, mostly.
He almost wished he had gone with them.
The moment stretched until the wait pressed too heavy on his chest. He wriggled, flexing his fingers.
'Time to move.'
Jaune rose with steady care, stretching out limbs that didn't ache like they should. A faint chill kissed his skin where her head had rested.
He glanced around. A few students were already back from changing. Sigh, but not enough. Meaning there were girls still changing in the locker room.
He swallowed thickly and turned toward the hallway.
Despite the air in the ballroom being cold, he couldn't help but start sweating.
He was remembering the locker room from the night before. Last night had seared itself into his memory like a branding iron.
The chaos. The voices. The way every huntress-to-be had tracked him the second he'd stepped inside…
Being the only guy in a room full of half-dressed, battle-hardened girls who looked at him like he was either a mistake… or a curiosity.
No, it wasn't just that.
It was Yang .
The way she unapologetically teased. All heat and fire and impossible breasts. Stretching like a cat, flashing smiles that felt like dares.
"I could use some help getting out of this tight shirt…"
Gods. Jaune could still hear her voice purring in his ear, even now.
He'd tried to play it cool, leaving before Yang could rile him up any further.
And she knew the effect she had on him. Yang had grinned like she'd won a prize, watching him melt under her teasing with all the satisfaction of someone lighting a fire just to see how bright it burned.
And then…
Blake.
The curve of her back. The way her dark hair had fallen down one shoulder. The slow bend forward that had turned his brain to ash. And those coy amber eyes observing him when he thought she hadn't noticed.
Except she had. Of course she had.
She let him.
If Yang set fires just to see him squirm, Blake stood in the ashes and simply asked if he could breathe.
And Brothers help him, he hadn't stopped thinking about it since.
Now, as his bare feet whispered along the polished tile, he felt that same flicker of anxiety curling under his ribs. Only this time, it was softer. It didn't burn like shame. It thrummed like tension.
He was about to step into the locker room again.
The same locker room. With the same dozen or more girls in varying stages of undress.
Except now, after last night, he wasn't a complete unknown anymore.
Jaune paused outside the door, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly.
"You've done this once," he whispered to himself. "You can do it again."
He pushed the door open—
And was immediately hit with the low murmur of conversation, the faint sound of steam hissing from the showers, and the unmistakable smell of shampoo, and leather.
Dozens of girls.
Again.
He gritted his teeth, looked down, and moved forward, hoping—praying—that this time, no one would notice the color rising to his ears.
Jaune stepped quietly into the locker room.
And everywhere he looked—girls. Still dressing. Still undressing.
His throat tightened.
The scent hit him first—warmth, sweat, fabric softener, the trace of metallic Dust in the air. Laughter echoed from one corner, boots clunked onto benches, and shirts rustled as bodies moved in casual rhythm.
A dozen conversations buzzed in the background. And everywhere he looked, girls. Still dressing. Still undressing.
His throat tightened.
Combat gear replaced pajamas now—straps pulled tight across curves, weapons secured against toned thighs or broad backs. Some girls still tugged on gloves or clipped belts. Others were adjusting bras, pulling shirts over damp skin, drying their hair from morning showers.
He caught a glimpse of Ruby, tugging her red corset into place with a fierce determination, cheeks flushed from effort. Yang stood nearby in her signature yellow, adjusting her hair with meticulous care. Before she could turn to make, and possibly make contact, Jaune looked away quickly.
'Not this time! Just get to your locker. No lingering.'
As he rounded a corner—
Hope.
By the sinks, he spotted someone—shorter than most, slender, hair tied up neatly, zipped halfway into a dark, green tailcoat. The stance was neutral, maybe a little stiff. From behind and at a glance, they looked just masculine enough. Jawline smootht, but not overly delicate. Hair tucked up tight.
Jaune's heart jumped.
'Another guy?'
Thank the Brothers. Finally, someone else like him.
He couldn't help the way his face lit up between joy and disbelief. His steps slowed, just long enough for the stranger to glance up.
Still smiling, Jaune gave a small nod.
For a second, big, pink eyes froze. Shining and wide. They blinked rapidly, then focused on a glove, fingers having become clumsy.
Bounce.
A flash of orange streaked past the corner of his vision. A girl—short, strong-legged, bursting with energy—skipped into frame like a human firecracker. She wore nothing but a garish, mismatched set of bra and panties, both snug enough to leave very little to the imagination. Her curves were tight, compact, plush in all the right places.
She twirled mid-step, one foot raised as she yanked on a sock, still talking animatedly over her shoulder.
"And then I told her—'Nuh uh, that's not how you do a triple spin vault, silly!' I mean come on, how do you even land that without a double twist? Ren, are you even listening? Helloooo?"
Her voice was bright and lilting, her hair bouncing wildly as she moved. She didn't slow down. Didn't even seem to realize the type of firepower she was throwing around.
Jaune's eyes widened—then quickly snapped away.
Oh.
'Breathe Jaune. We are not doing this again… please?'
His pulse spiked. Heat bloomed in his gut. The image stuck behind his eyes even after he looked away—the jiggle, the bare skin, the unbothered grin.
She was chaos and sunshine and half-dressed and—
He swallowed hard, throat dry.
'Don't react. Don't be weird. Don't ruin this.'
The hyperactive girl continued bouncing around without a care in the world. Meanwhile, the one called Ren—clearly flustered—ducked, still seemingly shaken by Jaune's earlier smile.
Jaune tilted his head slightly but kept walking. ' Odd reaction. Maybe the guy isn't used to friendly smiles.'
Still… It was nice to think he wasn't the only guy here. Even if the moment was brief.
Then bringing his eyes back to the floor, Jaune pressed forward until he arrived at his locker.
It stood where he'd left it—dented and half-buckled from the night before. A steel bruise among Beacon's otherwise pristine row of lockers.
Two girls stood directly in front of it. Of course.
One of them, Weiss Schnee, was already mid-sentence. "—and your performance at the Ironwood Exhibition was truly flawless. The way you countered that hammer-wielder in the second round? Inspired. Textbook use of pivot momentum."
She gestured with poise, her voice crisp and cultured, every syllable enunciated like it belonged in a lecture hall. Her white jacket was already set, not a single wrinkle or thread out of place. She radiated polished confidence.
The other girl stood opposite her.
Towering, elegant, and magnetic in a way that was almost unfair, she wore her bronze armor like it had been forged just for her curves. Her red hair was pulled back loosely, gleaming like fresh flame under the fluorescent lights. Her posture was calm, almost regal—shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely in front of her—but her smile was fixed, distant.
Tired.
She nodded politely at Weiss's running commentary but didn't engage. Didn't interrupt. Didn't encourage.
Weiss, undeterred, pressed on. "I've actually studied all four of your regional finals. Your use of misdirection is particularly effective. Most warriors overcommit, but you—"
"Uh, excuse me," Jaune interrupted, wincing as he tried to slide into the narrow space between them and his locker. "Sorry, just need to…"
Both girls turned.
Weiss's eyes sharpened immediately. "You again."
Jaune gave a sheepish half-smile. "Pretty sure this locker and I are sworn enemies at this point." He jiggled the warped handle until it opened with a protesting squeal of metal.
As he reached in, he caught a proper look at the redhead—and froze.
She wasn't just beautiful.
She was carved .
Every line of her, every angle and curve, looked as though it had been chiseled from marble by a sculptor who dared to dream beyond mortal limits. Not delicate. Not demure. Timeless . She stood like a statue from some ancient temple, the kind that made soldiers bow and poets lose their tongues. Not passive beauty, but poised power —femininity cast in bronze and fire.
Her hair, a curtain of molten red, spilled down her back like silk kissed by flame. Light struck it with reverence, sparking glints of copper and gold as if the sun itself bent closer just to touch her. Freckles scattered across high cheekbones, softening the statuesque elegance of her face—flaws that only made her realer , like cracks in a masterpiece that proved the gods had touched her more than once.
Then her eyes met his.
Emerald gemstones. Clear. Patient. The kind of gaze that saw through you—yet didn't judge. Just… noticed. A quiet kind of gravity lived in her, the calm stillness of someone who had already been through war and came out graceful . Jaune forgot what he was reaching for. He forgot how to breathe.
His gaze lowered, helplessly.
Her body was pure contradiction. Lithe and powerful. A dancer's balance atop an athlete's strength. Her legs, long and lean, were sheathed in crimson armor that hugged every movement with intimate fidelity. Her hips flared gently beneath a narrow waist, the cut of her plating revealing just enough to drive the imagination wild. And her chest—
'Holy.'
Her chest was encased in polished bronze, smooth and gleaming, molded not just for battle, but for beauty. It didn't hide her shape—it celebrated it. Her breasts sat high and proud, round and perfect beneath the fitted armor, rising and falling with slow, metered breaths like an offering placed upon an altar. A metronome of temptation.
She looked like she belonged in a coliseum, or a shrine. Not Beacon. Not a hallway.
Not this close .
Desire struck him like a spear. Sudden. Violent. Deep.
He burned with it—gut to throat, full-body heat that made his pulse stumble and roar.
She was a temple. A weapon. A dream .
And Jaune… wasn't.
He didn't even know who he was.
And now he was staring at a goddess like an idiot, mouth dry, brain fogged with heat and guilt and longing .
'She's way out of your league, buddy. She's probably got statues back home in her honor. And you're here in these nothing pajamas and an Aura you don't know how to use.'
His heart pounded. He should've looked away. Should've apologized, shuffled off, kept his head down like always.
Instead…
He swallowed, forced a crooked smile, and mumbled— "Uh—wow, sorry, I wasn't—uh, I mean, wasn't staring , I just—locker. Yours. Mine. Sorry again. Didn't mean to interrupt."
He backed up a little, trying to give space and dignity to someone who clearly deserved both.
The redhead blinked. A beat passed. Her shoulders shifted ever so slightly—straightening, relaxing.
She tilted her head, curious. "No worries."
Weiss, still caught between pride and confusion, scoffed. "Tell me you're joking. You seriously don't know who she is?"
Jaune glanced between them. "Um… no?"
Weiss groaned. "That is Pyrrha Nikos!"
Jaune looked at her again, brows raised. "Is that… supposed to mean something?"
Weiss looked like she'd been struck. "She's a four-time Mistral Regional Tournament Champion! Undefeated in every single match. She's on cereal boxes, for Brothers' sake!"
"Oh." Jaune nodded slowly, then smiled at Pyrrha. "That sounds pretty impressive."
Weiss's voice shot up an octave. "Pretty—?! Are you—? Do you live under a rock? Or are you just feral ?"
"Sort of?," Jaune muttered. "Maybe?"
Weiss opened her mouth again, but Pyrrha raised a hand gently, stopping her.
"It's alright," she said, her tone mild and amused. "Really."
She looked back at Jaune, and this time— this time —her smile was real. Radiant in a way even the cameras had never captured.
He hadn't stared. He hadn't fawned. He hadn't even flinched.
He'd just seen her. Spoken to her. Not to the war medal, not to the trophy shelf, not to the face on a cereal box. Just… to her .
And— Brothers help her —he was handsome. Not in the plastic-perfect, media-groomed way she was used to. There was nothing manicured about him. He was raw. Earnest. Handsome in the way old sculptors must have prayed for when carving heroes. Strong arms. Thick chest. Broad hands with blunt, capable fingers. Golden hair that curled and tousled at the edges, kissed by sunlight and sweat.
And his eyes—blue as starlight over still water, with umbral rings threading their edge—looked at her not like she was an idol, but a person.
Pyrrha couldn't help it. Her gaze lingered.
And then he started to undress.
Jaune turned back to his locker and began to change, utterly unbothered. Unaware? Or maybe just… unafraid. Like someone who didn't think there was anything strange about peeling off his clothes in front of her. Trusting, in a way that felt strangely intimate.
Pyrrha hadn't meant to keep watching. Honestly. She told herself it was just curiosity. Observation. But her eyes didn't avert.
Not when his hoodie came off, revealing the full spread of his shoulders— broad , thick with natural strength. Not refined by mirrors and meal plans. Not shaped by vanity. This was the kind of body built through work . Through effort. Through life.
Then the shirt.
He peeled it off in a smooth, unthinking motion, the hem catching briefly over his back and tugging against his skin. Muscles flexed and flowed beneath pale flesh, dusted faintly with golden hair. His back moved like a wave—rippling with lived-in power beneath it.
There was no showmanship. No arrogance. That only made it worse. Or better.
Pyrrha's lips parted, letting air escape her.
Jaune was— genuinely —beautiful.
Rough-hewn. Unpolished. But honest .
And exactly her type. The type she'd long ago given up hoping to meet.
The men she knew were all curated. Polished. Branded. They looked at her and saw a symbol, a title, a victory to win. They loved the legend, or they chased the challenge.
But this boy hadn't blinked. He didn't even know who she was.
And somehow… that made her feel seen in a way nothing else ever had.
Weiss had gone silent—mercifully—but her posture had changed. She stood rigid now, arms crossed over her chest, face turned deliberately away. But Pyrrha saw it. The flicker in her eyes. That tiny, stolen glance Weiss would never admit to.
She wasn't immune either.
Jaune reached for his belt.
Pyrrha's gaze followed, shameless and slow.
She'd fought too many matches, broken too many ribs, buried too many bruises to be flustered by nudity in locker rooms. But this wasn't anatomy.
This was him .
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants—stretching them just enough to let them fall.
His thighs—thick, powerful, carved like supporting columns—emerged from the crumpled fabric, leading down to well-shaped calves and solid footing. His underwear clung to him with unthinking cruelty. Tight. Lifted. Perfect.
His ass— firm, round, Brothers have mercy —shifted with each slight motion.
Pyrrha bit the inside of her cheek, hard.
She had trained with masters.
She had medaled, triumphed, bled.
She had never, in all her disciplined years, felt so undone by the simple act of someone changing clothes .
There was a quiet winding building around them now.
The room had changed.
Conversations faltered. The buzz of casual chatter dissolved into a pregnant pause that settled like static across skin. Air itself felt heavier—thicker. As if the oxygen had become a rare commodity, rationed only to those strong enough to endure what they were seeing. Every breath expensive.
Even Jaune noticed. He shifted slightly on his feet, rubbed the back of his neck, and stared forward—at nothing, at everything—like the locker door might offer him some kind of reprieve. Mercy, maybe. Escape from the suddenly strange atmosphere.
Then, with an innocent efficiency , he bent down to collect his combat clothes.
His glutes flexed beneath the snug stretch of cotton— tight , lifted, high. Two perfect domes that moved with presence.
Someone behind them choked on their coffee. A paper cup hit the floor with a dull splat.
Pyrrha's mind blanked.
She gawked. There was no other word for it. Gawked, as the world blurred around the edges. Her throat went dry. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears like war drums.
He didn't even know .
For one dizzy, unmoored second, she forgot she was a champion. Where she was. What being Pyrrha Nikos was supposed to mean. She was just a girl. A girl whose knees were currently very, very weak.
Beside her, Weiss made a strangled, inhuman sound—half-squeak, half-sigh—as she jerked her head away so violently it tossed her hair. But it was no use. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, her composure vaporizing. Her head snapped back like elastic, dragging her pride with it as she peeked back like it hurt not to. She whispered something sharp and desperate under her breath—likely a prayer for strength, or maybe forgiveness.
Yang blinked.
Once. Twice.
Then again.
Her mouth opened as if to deliver a joke… and then didn't. Her smirk died stillborn on her lips as her thighs pressed together, subtly but definitely . Her jaw flexed. The glint in her eye wavered between shock and… interest. Deep, carnal interest. "… Damn, " she muttered, low and reverent. No teasing this time. Just awe.
Poor Ruby's hands froze mid-buckle, like someone had yanked the plug on her brain. The strap slipped from her fingers with a loud snap that might as well have been thunder. She made a squeaky little hiccup of a noise—part panic, part fascination—and just stood there, visibly rebooting. Her whole face was lit crimson, her mouth working soundlessly, her eyes glued to the butt of the man that awoke a new world to her.
Across the room, Blake had paused mid-motion. Her towel slipped off one shoulder, ignored. She made no sound. Her amber eyes didn't flick. Didn't dart. They drank . Steady. Unashamed. Drinking him in with the same quiet intensity she'd shown when she let him look at her—only now the roles were reversed.
Then came the moment none of them were ready for.
Jaune stood up.
Combat pants in hand, sliding upward.
Then he did this little shift. Like a small hop. Whatever was going on, it required him to adjust his balance… and his body turned toward them.
And in the gap—just for a second—they saw it.
He pulled them up slowly, the waistband tugging over his thighs—and for a fleeting, glorious moment, the curve of his bulge became visible.
Not aggressive. Not posed.
Just there . It wasn't impressive in the way stories bragged or locker room myths bragged louder. But it was there, pushing behind the cling of thin cotton. Proud. Natural. Like it had nothing to prove.
It swayed slightly with the movement. It was… him . Unshielded. Unperformed. The unmistakable outline of a man who didn't realize he was giving a show—and had no idea what it meant to the audience.
And the fabric wasn't kind.
It framed him. Cradled him. Revealed just enough to show the weight of it shifting with movement, the subtle curve that pressed against the cotton with lazy confidence. Not hardness. Not boldness. Just… heat. Mass. Bulging.
And the girls saw it.
Oh, they saw.
Weiss made a sound. Not even a syllable. Just a tiny, betrayed sound —something between a breath and a noise of impact, like she'd been physically struck . Her eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again . Her arms snapped tighter around her chest, as if she were defending herself from something.
"It's average," she muttered to herself, like a warding spell. "Average. Normal." But her groin was on fire , and her eyes wouldn't stop drifting . Her nipples ached behind the lace of her bra, stiff and swollen from the rush of blood she couldn't command. She crossed her arms over them, but it didn't help. "Godsdammit…"
Yang blinked slower now. Her usual desire to snark never came. She just ogled . There was no punchline for this. Only raw appreciation. Her gaze dragged over the line of fabric, down his leg, then back up again.
"Okay…" she murmured slowly. "Yeah—yeah, that'll do." Her thighs rubbed together against the swelling and sensitivity. Her abs flexed as if she needed to hold something in. "Gods, it's the way it sits. "
Her skin tingled with warmth as a pulse settled low in her core—deep and hot and spreading . She shifted where she stood, subtly grinding her heel into the floor, trying to relieve the pressure in her shorts as her panties dampened. "He didn't even try and I'm soaked."
Ruby was still frozen. Not just in place, but in being . Her face lit up with an almost comical flush as her hands twitched mid-air like they'd forgotten how to work. She gaped , then blinked hard, lips parted.
"But… it's just—" she whispered to herself, voice cracking. "Why is that… so…" She squeaked, pulled her cape in front of her, and tried to hide her everything . Her hips hitched forward, butt tight. Her breathing shortened. She felt the flutter low in her stomach, like wings beating behind her navel—and then the dull, unmistakable pulse of her clit thickening, aching through the damp cotton of her underwear. Her voice barely a squeak, "It moved…"
But then her eyes betrayed her. They peeked again. Just once. Just long enough to get hooked .
Blake didn't twitch. Didn't stammer. Her eyes simply narrowed, attentive and slow. Just studying . She followed the shape of it as it shifted when he moved. The way it rose slightly with the fabric, settled with weight. The line. The volume. The rhythm. Her leering eyes narrowed, focused, and something unreadable passed across her face.
' It's not about size,' she thought. 'That's about truth.'
And she liked the truth.
Her nipples had hardened painfully beneath her sports bra. She felt them brush against fabric with every breath. And between her thighs, she was wet . No shame. No hesitation. Just heat. Heavy and hungry. She inhaled once, shallow, and her thighs flexed with restraint. She didn't look away.
And Pyrrha?
Pyrrha… Pyrrha was trembling .
Her body clenched with a low, needy ache she hadn't expected. She had been trained to withstand heat, pain, pressure—but not this . Not a glance. A fold of cotton. A man unaware of his effect.
Her gaze traced the subtle sway beneath the fabric—the unhurried motion of something real. Not exaggerated. Just… him. Warm. Weighty. Alive. The faint shadow of masculinity worn without performance.
And Brothers— please help her —it was perfect. She didn't even feel herself breathing harder.
She couldn't remember the last time someone made her legs shake without lifting a weapon. Her body moved without permission—like it needed contact . Her thighs trembled together instinctively, a protective reflex against the wave of liquid heat soaking through her battle briefs.
Her chest ached. Her nipples were tight, pebble-hard against the inside of her bra. Every heartbeat throbbed in her abdomen, her clit engorging slowly, sending up flashes of pleasure with every minor movement.
'You're not supposed to want something this badly just because it exists,' she thought.
But she did.
And it was average.
And that meant anyone could have it.
But right now, she was seeing it.
And she never wanted to look away.
Pyrrha hadn't realized she was still staring until the fabric of combat pants slid up his waist, slowly obscuring what she'd seen.
It felt like watching the veil drop over a sacred relic.
Weiss broke the silence first, exhaling sharply with the violent precision of someone trying not to lose control. She hissed something under her breath that sounded half-Atlesian and very angry.
But Pyrrha didn't hear her.
She was still watching Jaune Arc.
Because he wasn't trying to tempt. Wasn't trying to perform. And that meant every line of his body, every glimpse of that private, resting presence—that outline —felt like something she was never meant to see.
And somewhere deep inside—behind years of discipline, behind trophies and headlines and burden—something unfurled.
This wasn't going to be the last time.
Not if she could help it.
Across the locker room, something else shifted—silent, invisible, but undeniable.
Their Auras were glowing. Stronger. Warmer. Thicker in the air like steam after rainfall.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't even visible—unless you knew what to look for. A faint shimmer behind the eyes. A deeper breath drawn without thinking. Muscles looser. Hearts steadier. Aura responded to emotion, and positive emotion—want, admiration, affection—fed it best.
Training mattered of course. But here, in Beacon's walls, closeness wasn't a distraction.
It was doctrine.
Every young woman in that room had grown up with that truth etched into her soul: that positive emotion strengthened Aura. That desire, admiration, especially raw arousal—when accepted, when welcomed—could fortify the spirit as surely as any blade.
That was why they trained together. Lived together. Changed together.
Not because it was easy.
Because it made you harder to kill.
It was how Huntresses deflected blows that should have broken ribs. How they landed on their feet after falls that should have shattered spines. How their Aura didn't just shield—but healed a little faster after an injury, when exhaustion ebbed quicker than it should. Not in spite of intimacy, but because of it .
And right now? Every girl who looked at Jaune Arc had a little more to fight with.
Later, when the young women in the locker room noticed when a claw struck and bounced off with just a little more resistance, they would remember.
It was the strength built here.
They wouldn't name it aloud.
But each girl in that room left standing just a little taller. Aura wrapped closer. Healthier. Denser. More reactive. As if their very souls had drawn breath and found something worth holding onto .
Not because of what they'd done.
But because of how he made them feel.
Jaune finished pulling up his pants, exhaled through his nose, and fastened the buckle with shaky fingers. He'd done it.
Changed. Dressed. Survived.
Nothing catastrophic had happened. No one screamed. No one had thrown anything. There'd been no awkward applause, no panicked retreat. Just a locker room. Just clothes.
So why did the air still feel so heavy?
The silence clung to his skin like humidity. Static thickened in the air—unspoken, electric—and Jaune didn't understand it. A moment ago, the room had been alive with the rustle of uniforms and idle banter. Now…
He didn't dare glance around, attention pressing in at the edges. The kind that made the hairs on his neck stand up. The quiet was too quiet. Like people were trying not to speak. Or breathe. Or look.
He could feel it—eyes on him. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His instincts whispered of tension, but he assumed it was the nerves, the newness of it all. A co-ed locker room. Dozens of strangers. He must've looked ridiculous—awkward and lanky and underprepared.
'Great. I probably looked like I didn't know how to put pants on.'
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks pinking with residual embarrassment. Nothing.
Just the dull clang of his belt settling into place, with a little extra force. Like that might somehow erase the awkwardness he imagined clung to him like lint.
Then: a metallic clang broke the tension.
Weiss.
"You could have at least warned someone before doing that," she muttered—not to him, but to the air between them.
Jaune turned slightly, blinking. "Wait… what?"
'Was she… talking to him?'
She wasn't looking directly at him. Not quite. But her stance was rigid, her gaze a little too focused on the far wall. Her fingers drummed against her bicep like they had something to say that her mouth refused to utter. Her face had gone pinker than normal.
He squinted. Was she mad at him? For changing ?
He scanned himself. There was no wardrobe malfunction. No ripped seams. No horrible, shame-inducing accident. So what—
Her gaze flicked his way. Just for a moment. Like a whip crack. A moment too long, a breath too charged. Her jaw clenched. Then she turned hard and walked off with a huff, her ponytail swaying like punctuation.
Jaune was baffled.
"What did I do?"
He didn't think he'd done anything wrong—but the way she looked at him… like he'd shaken something she didn't want moved.
He exhaled again and looked down at his belt as if it might explain anything.
He didn't get it.
Didn't see what they saw.
To him, it had been a small triumph. He'd managed to change without tripping or getting caught staring. No pants had fallen. No awkward boners. Just… clothes. Normal.
Except the room didn't feel normal.
And then he turned slightly—and met Pyrrha's eyes.
She hadn't moved.
Her expression hadn't changed. But her eyes—those sharp, intelligent, beautiful eyes—were different now.
She smiled, a curve like sunrise. "You carry yourself like you don't even realize you're being watched."
Jaune blinked. "Is that… a good thing?"
There was no accusation in her voice. Just something… thoughtful. Admiring.
Her smile deepened. "It's honest. "
He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck again. "Guess I'm just not used to all this. First locker room with this many people. Let alone... you know."
His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely at the room full of half-dressed girls. He regretted it instantly.
Pyrrha chuckled, the sound like warm velvet. "You handled it better than most would."
He scratched behind his ear. "Felt like a train wreck to me."
"No," she said, stepping a little closer. Her voice dropped just a touch. "It felt… real."
His chest fluttered—like someone had opened a window inside him.
Then she extended a hand. "I'm Pyrrha, by the way. In case you didn't catch it earlier."
"Jaune," he said, shaking it. Her grip was firm. Warm. Centered.
And she lingered—her eyes slipping over his jawline, his collarbone, just briefly before returning to his face.
"It's nice to meet you, Jaune," she said—and her eyes lingered just a second longer than they had to, tracing the line of his jaw before flicking to his eyes again.
Something fluttered in his chest.
"Yeah," he managed, trying to sound casual. "You too."
Suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch, a rising hum of chatter filled the locker room.
Whispers. Giggling.
"Wait… that's him?"
"Did you see that…?"
"I wasn't ready. That was not fair."
Jaune flinched like a Grimm had growled in his ear. 'I knew it. I screwed something up.'
He panicked. His pulse skittered. He didn't know where to look—until, suddenly, the crowd inched closer.
And just as quickly… it didn't.
A wall formed around him.
Ruby moved first. A blur of red cloth and determination. She planted herself at his side with a stiffness that said: mine to protect . Not possessive—just loyal. Awkward and bold.
Yang followed like a fuse to flame. She didn't say much, just leaned into her usual swagger with arms crossed and a slow, loaded glance that told every girl nearby: touch him, and I'll touch you back harder.
Blake didn't speak. She didn't need to. She stepped behind him like a second shadow—measured and precise. Her stillness itself was a warning. Not cold. Just… territorial.
And Pyrrha… Pyrrha barely moved at all..
She didn't need to.
She was the wall. Just her presence—centered, focused—seemed to radiate enough . Her body angled toward him. Her shoulder, subtly poised between Jaune and the boldest stares. Her gaze remained steady. Watchful. Quietly, gracefully possessive . The message was clear: You've all had your look. That's enough.
Jaune blinked. "...What's happening?"
"Nothing!" Ruby said too quickly, eyes darting around. "We're just, um, making sure you're good."
He raised an eyebrow. "I just changed my clothes."
Yang grinned.
"Exactly. Big day." Her gaze flicked to a nearby girl, who quickly turned away. "Can't have people stealing your thunder before you even get your hoodie back on."
Jaune blinked. "Thunder?"
"Figure of speech," Blake offered smoothly.
Pyrrha nodded, still composed. "You're… centered. That makes people curious. We are just making sure it does not turn into a distraction."
More whispers. A giggle. A hush.
Blake didn't smile, but her tone was cool and sure when she finally spoke, "He's already in a rhythm. You don't get to interrupt it just because you're curious."
Another girl paused mid-step. Jaune could see the subtle flinch in her eyes.
Pyrrha's voice cut through the murmurs—not loud, but unmistakably clear. "You've had your look. Give him room to breathe."
She didn't raise her voice. Every girl in the room knew who she was.
Four-time Mistral Champion. Undefeated. Crowned before most of them could lift a weapon.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't square her shoulders. She just looked at them. Not cruel. Not angry. Just confident. Powerful.
The kind of presence that had bent thousands in a coliseum to silence.
One by one, the girls looked away.
No anger. No shame.
The girls retreating weren't scolded, just… redirected. But boundaries still mattered. Aura was fueled by emotion, after all—and there were different kinds of hunger.
Then—
"I knew this would happen."
That shrill voice was unmistakable.
Weiss stood near the locker room exit, one hand on her hip, looking no less regal for her slight flush. Her dress was flawless. Her glare? Frosted glass.
She gestured vaguely toward the group still lingering around the locker row. "Does no one have restraint anymore? "One boy walks in, and everyone forgets how to function?"
Ruby mumbled, "Kinda like yesterday…"
Yang shrugged. "Locker scene was wild."
Blake, without looking up, simply said, "Funny how quick you are to judge the outliers."
If Weiss heard them, she gave no sign—too busy fussing with her jacket sleeve, as if the minor adjustment could distract from the color in her cheeks.
Someone near the back laughed. Another girl called out, "Says the one who nearly swallowed her tongue!"
Weiss's jaw clenched. "I exercised appropriate self-control!"
Ruby coughed. "Pretty sure you flinched."
"I did not flinch," Weiss bit back, her voice clipped. "I was assessing him. And I found… risk."
Her voice stayed calm, but her grip tightened on the hilt of her rapier. She didn't mean to clench it.
That was the problem.
He wasn't polished. He wasn't verified. He wasn't safe.
And yet… every time she looked at him, her heart moved just a little off-beat.
Jaune met her eyes again. She held the gaze for one hard second—then broke it first. Again.
The door hissed behind her as she vanished through it.
Silence lingered.
…Did I screw up?" Jaune asked at last, his voice low.
"No," Pyrrha said simply.
"You just… stood out," Blake added, her tone unreadable.
Yang smirked. "Yeah. Apparently standing in one place is a pretty rare talent."
Ruby groaned into her hands. "Oh my gods…"
Jaune raised both hands in surrender. "Okay, I'm putting my shirt and hoodie back on now."
"You could leave it off," Yang offered innocently.
"He shouldn't, " Ruby hissed.
And yet when Jaune finally put his shirt back on, surrounded by these girls—each of them strong, each of them somehow moved by something he still didn't understand—he felt more confused than embarrassed.
Because to him, he'd done nothing special.
But to them… it had meant everything .
And that disconnect?
That was the moment that hooked them deeper.
Because Jaune Arc wasn't just kind.
He was oblivious to the effect he had. Not falsely humble. Truly blind to his own gravity.
And for a group of young women trained their whole lives to read strength in every form—it wasn't just endearing.
It was dangerous.
The kind of danger they didn't run from.
The kind they chose to fight beside.
The kind they'd kill to keep close.
As the tension faded into awkward laughter, Jaune pulled his shirt and hoodie on, shaking his head.
After a final tug at his collar, he turned to Pyrrha. "You're, uh… really good at that."
She raised an eyebrow, just slightly. "At… what exactly?"
"At keeping things from getting out of hand," he said honestly, "without sounding like a jerk."
No sarcasm. No irony. Just quiet awe.
As if she'd just stopped a bar fight and he was the only one who hadn't seen her name in lights.
Pyrrha blinked.
Out of everything she'd expected him to say— that wasn't it.
And it wasn't why she had done it.
But the compliment landed anyway.
Her expression softened, shoulders easing just a touch. "Thank you," she said, almost shyly. "Most people just call it 'intimidating.'"
Jaune gave a crooked smile. "You don't seem intimidating."
That caught her off guard again.
Not because it wasn't true—but because he believed it.
"Maybe you're just not paying attention," she teased, though her voice carried something deeper. Unsettled.
Jaune shrugged. "I just think… you're kind. And that counts more."
There it was again—that quiet honesty. That unshakable center.
And for the second time that day, Pyrrha felt something stir .
Not as the Invincible Girl.
But as just… Pyrrha.
The locker room emptied slowly. Though something about it had changed—less noise, less pretense. Eyes no longer lingered on Jaune with the same overt curiosity. Not because interest had faded, but because something else had replaced it.
He tried not to think about it.
Tried not to think about the way Ruby stayed near him, not saying much but fidgeting like she might throw herself in front of another locker room mob.
Or how Yang ruffled his hair once on the way out, her smirk all teeth, but her eyes flicking downward for just a second too long. Like she knew exactly the effect she had on him—and maybe wasn't quite ready to admit he had one on her too.
Or how Blake, silent as always, watched him with that unreadable gaze. Her presence was light, but it lingered. Her scent still hung in his senses like smoke from an old fire. Not a warning—but a memory. Of something that hadn't happened yet.
And Pyrrha.
She had walked beside him, not saying a word, but close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. He could feel her presence even when she wasn't touching him—like armor warm from battle. Like protection, offered without asking. She didn't speak, but every step beside him seemed like a silent vow.
Outside the locker room, the halls had filled with students—tired, tense, expectant. Most wore their weapons now. Uniforms fresh, hair tied back, eyes forward. The tension of ritual lingered beneath the fluorescent lights.
Today, they would be tested.
Jaune walked a half-step behind the others, not because he felt lesser—but because something in him needed to watch them.
Ruby's light footsteps bounced like a rhythm she hadn't learned to dance to yet—bright, erratic, hopeful. A girl running toward the future, even if she didn't yet know where it would lead.
Yang moved like a flame pretending to be a person—bold and wild and lethal, her body tuned for impact, her gaze searching for something to dare.
Blake flowed like a shadow that hadn't decided if it wanted to disappear—soft-footed and steady, every breath of hers a secret waiting for the right listener.
Pyrrha—Pyrrha walked like a legend written in motion. Her silence, a grace held taut, the kind of quiet found only before a storm—or a song.
Weiss was already ahead of them, speaking to no one. Her back was straight, her pace clipped and precise, the hilt of her rapier flashing cold silver in the morning light. She didn't look at him. Not directly. But once—just once—her eyes flicked his way, cool and assessing. And when she turned forward again, her steps slowed half a beat, giving them a chance to catch up. It wasn't permission. But it wasn't dismissal, either.
Her footsteps had taken her ahead without thinking. That was how it always was. Lead. Dignity first. Always. Don't look back.
But she did.
Just once. Over her shoulder.
Just to see if he was still looking.
He didn't know what they saw when they looked at him. But he knew how he felt walking behind them: unworthy… and pulled forward by something larger than fear.
The hallway narrowed into open air.
Stone gave way to wind. Ahead, the launch platforms stretched out in silent formation, metal circles poised like ancient sigils carved into the bones of the school. The Emerald Forest sprawled beyond, dark and vast and waiting—an old god in the shape of trees and silence.
Students gathered in quiet clusters. Some whispered nervously. Others laughed too loudly.
Two stood off to the side—distinct even in stillness. One was tall, quiet, hair tied back with careful precision and eyes that flicked toward him for only a breath before lowering again. The other bounced in place, orange hair glowing like wildfire in the early light, lips moving at a mile a minute even though no one else was responding.
Jaune blinked. Just for a second, the one with the pink eyes smiled at him—shy, almost startled—and then quickly turned away. He didn't know their names yet. But he had a feeling he would.
He inhaled slowly. The wind curled against his skin, biting, as if the forest was breathing him in already.
He looked out over the Emerald Forest—and for the first time since arriving at Beacon, he didn't feel like he was floating.
He felt heavy. Grounded. Pulled by something under his skin that hummed like a second heartbeat.
Something inside him whispered again—not in words, but in pressure. In hunger. In anticipation.
And just like before… it didn't feel hostile.
It felt ready.
"Everyone in position!" came Glynda's voice from the upper platform. "Instructions will begin momentarily."
Jaune stepped into his launch spot.
Ruby gave him a thumbs up—shaky, but real. Her cheeks were pink, and her hand lingered too long in the air before she pulled it back like she'd forgotten it was still raised. She smiled, a little too fast, a little too bright. But her silver eyes stayed on him—soft, open, and unguarded. Like she was holding something close to her chest and didn't know how to offer it.
Weiss, a few platforms over, didn't speak—but she adjusted her grip on her rapier and looked his way for the briefest of seconds before flicking her hair over one shoulder, chin held high. It wasn't the cold scrutiny from their first encounter. Not the dismissive edge from the locker room. This was something quieter. A flicker of thought behind her eyes, too brief to name—but familiar. Because I had to know if there was something inside me worth keeping.
Blake turned her head slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. Her expression unreadable. But her gaze lingered longer than necessary. Not just watching—studying. Like he was a puzzle she'd already started solving. Her golden eyes flicked across him, then down, then back. No judgment. Just interest. Quiet. Focused. The kind that noticed things others missed—and remembered.
Yang grinned, her golden hair catching the wind, stance wide and solid. Arms crossed beneath her chest, like she was daring the forest to try something. But when her eyes lilac found him, they glinted softly —just for a second. The grin dipped into something warmer. Her gaze dipped too, just briefly, over his frame before returning to his eyes. Like she was appreciating more than muscle. Like she'd seen something earnest in him. Her look said it all: I've got your back.
And Pyrrha nodded once, serene and sure. Her fingers curled over the edge of her shield. Her posture was perfect, her breathing even. Her chest angled slightly toward him. But her eyes lingered—on him, not the forest. Her intense emerald eyes brightened, dusky lips parting slightly as if caught off guard by the intensity of the moment. The practiced calm didn't vanish, but a surprised, joyful split across her face.
He didn't smile. Not yet. But he felt the thrum inside awaken, filling every inch of his body with a subtle hiss.
Jaune Arc didn't know who he was.
But today?
He was ready to find out.