Inside, Saeles's mother returned yet again, her eyes cold and assessing. She inspected Saeles like one inspects a fragile weapon, noting every bruise, every flaw, every hesitation.
"You're still too slow," she said sharply. "Every mistake is weakness. Every hesitation is failure. You will endure everything I demand. Weakness will destroy you."
Saeles didn't falter. She didn't question her mother's words, she didn't hesitate, she didn't waver. She struck the bag again and again, bloodied knuckles flying, each punch faster, harder, more precise. Pain was familiar. Pain was control. Pain was survival.
Her mother's presence pressed down on her, shaping her every motion, driving her further into a world of violence and discipline. Outside the window, Bada's small form trembled, but she refused to leave, drawn to Saeles like a moth to flame, unable to turn away.