Western District
The western district carried a rougher air than the neighborhood Garron and Serra called home. The streets narrowed into cramped veins, packed with people speaking over one another while engines roared from every corner. Black-market stalls sprawled along the main road, trading everything from scrap parts to homemade weapons.
Garron and Serra moved through the noise toward the arena. Garron kept talking, though his eyes never stopped sweeping their surroundings.
"Remember, don't let them corner you," he said. "You ain't built like them, but you move faster than all of 'em."
Serra nodded, fingers tightening around the gloves slung over her shoulder. "I know, Garron. I'm ready."
When they reached the arena, the air was already thick with shouting. It was nothing more than a wide circle fenced with metal barricades, spectators crowding in from all sides. Inside, two fighters swung at each other in sloppy, desperate arcs, their bodies carved with bruises and sweat.
Serra drew a slow breath. She knew exactly what she needed to do. Yet somewhere deep inside, the name "Aelina" echoed like a half-forgotten whisper, drifting through her mind with no explanation.
The fight before hers ended. Noise swelled. Garron's grip tightened on the fence as Serra stepped into the ring.
The match turned savage fast. Serra's opponent towered over her, each strike falling like a hammer. She dodged, but exhaustion clung to her limbs. The man caught her shoulder and slammed a punch into it, sending her crashing to the ground.
The referee began counting.
Garron dragged both hands over his face, then peeked through his fingers. "Get up, girl! Don't let him take it that easy!"
But the count hit ten.
Serra stayed on her knees, breath ragged, frustration dimming her eyes. Garron hurried inside, kneeling beside her.
"You all right?" he asked, scanning her bruises.
Serra nodded faintly. "I lost."
"You lost, yeah. But you ain't a loser," he said, helping her rise. "You showed heart. That matters."
They walked home beneath the dim streetlights. Serra moved with the slump of someone dragging disappointment behind her. Garron walked close, trying to break the heavy silence.
"Listen, losing is part of the game," he said, glancing at the sky like he was briefing a constellation. "First time I fought, the dude knocked me out in five seconds flat."
Serra looked over. "Five seconds?"
"Five," he repeated, lips tugging into a grin. "Didn't even know what hit me. But I got back up the next day 'cause I hated the idea of stayin' down more than I hated losin'."
Serra let out a slow sigh. "I feel like I'm not good enough. I know you expect a lot from me."
Garron stopped walking. Serra halted too. He faced her, voice steady.
"Hope ain't the same thing as pressure," he said. "I know what you can become. But you don't owe me anything. You just keep movin'. One step. Then another."
Serra lowered her gaze, then nodded. "Thank you, Garron."
"There you go." He gestured forward. "Now let's get home. My knees are killin' me and the sofa's callin' my name."
A faint smile tugged at Serra's lips.
Back at the house, Garron opened the door and waved her in. "Go rest. We start fresh tomorrow."
Serra collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing her aching neck. "Garron… I'm scared I'll never live up to what you see in me."
He wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to her.
"I ain't askin' you to be anyone else," he said. "I just want you to be Serra. That's enough."
Her eyes softened. "You always know how to make things feel less heavy."
"That's a gift," he replied, settling into the chair. "Now drink that and get some sleep. Push yourself too hard and I'll have to drag you to a doctor, and I hate clinics."
Serra obeyed, rising and heading to her room. "Good night, Garron."
"Night, girl."
That night, Serra drifted into another dream.
She stood inside the Arbora forest again, trees stretching like ancient guardians. A small girl sprinted through the greenery, laughter echoing like a memory just out of reach. Faces appeared among the leaves — Kirana, Zephyr, Aelina — smiling with warmth that felt impossibly familiar.
Then the sky reddened.
Fire crawled over the treetops, devouring bark and soil. The faces faded in the blaze until Serra was alone in the inferno.
She jolted awake, breath sharp and uneven.
In the kitchen, Garron was already up preparing breakfast: bread and tea. He glanced over as she shuffled in.
"Sleep all right?" he asked.
Serra shook her head. "Another strange dream."
He sat across from her, tone gentler than usual. "What about this time?"
"A forest. People I don't know but… I feel like I should know. Then everything burned."
Garron exhaled slowly. "Dreams are just your brain takin' out the trash. Don't cling to 'em too hard. Focus on what you can touch today."
"It felt real," she whispered.
Garron's expression softened. "Then let it remind you of one thing. Whatever you're facin', you ain't alone. I'm right here."
Serra nodded, the trembling in her chest easing a little. "Thanks, Garron."
"That's why I'm around," he said, sipping his tea. "Now eat. Big day ahead."