Shade didn't go to rehearsal.
She didn't answer the group chat either.
She lay in bed with her lamp on and her curtains half closed like she could control the world by controlling the light. Her stomach still felt wrong — raw and nauseous, punishing her for trying to eat like a normal person.
Normal didn't fit.
Neither did yesterday.
Shade replayed the restaurant again and again, like her brain was chewing it until it bled.
Blaze waiting outside the bathroom.
Blaze not pushing.
Blaze saying:
You're not finishing this alone.
Shade hated that sentence.
Because it was kind.
And Shade didn't know what to do with kindness.
Her phone had been vibrating all morning.
Echora group chat.
Echo: WHERE ARE YOUEcho: DID YOU DIE??Echo: blink twice if someone kidnapped you
Nova didn't text nonsense, she called.
Shade stared at the missed call like it was a threat.
Then another buzz.
A private message.
Blaze.
Shade didn't open it.
She couldn't.
If she opened it, she'd have to respond.If she responded, she'd be real.If she was real, she'd lose control.
Shade didn't do crushes.
Shade didn't do love.
Shade didn't do girls—
Right?
Her stomach twisted again, like her body was laughing at her denial.
She shut her eyes and pressed a hand over her pendant as if it could keep her contained.
It didn't.
Hours passed like that — lamp light and breath and avoidance.
Until she couldn't stand the stillness anymore.
Stillness gave her room to think.
And she didn't want to think.
So she dragged herself out of bed and dressed like armor.
Hoodie.Covered skin.Cross close to her chest.
Safe.
She left her apartment.
Outside, Aetheridge was damp and restless. The sidewalks shone with old rain, neon still clinging to puddles like the city refused to be ordinary even in daylight.
She walked.
Not fast.Not slow.
Just… forward.
She told herself it was just a walk.
Fresh air.
Reset.
But her feet didn't choose random streets.
Her feet chose routine.
Her feet chose the boxing gym.
She hated herself for it.
She also didn't stop.
The gym appeared in the distance like a habit.
Like something her body did before her mind could argue.
Shade stepped inside, keeping her face neutral. The front desk staff barely glanced up — they knew her as the "quiet girl" who came and went without making problems.
She walked past the corridor.
Past the smell of disinfectant and sweat.
Toward the coach's booth.
Her secret.
She reached for the handle.
Pulled.
Nothing.
Shade blinked.
Pulled again.
Locked.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
That wasn't part of the script.
Shade stared at the door like it had betrayed her personally.
Then she noticed it.
A small, handwritten piece of paper taped across the frame.
Two words.
Stop hiding.
Shade's breath caught.
Her body went cold, then hot, then cold again.
Slowly, Shade turned.
The ring was lit.
Empty except for one person leaning against the fence like she owned every inch of it.
Blaze.
Her expression was calm.
Smug, even.
Like she'd been waiting a long time to say something.
Shade's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Blaze tilted her head slightly.
"You're late," Blaze said.
Shade's pulse slammed into her throat.
"I'm not—" Shade began automatically.
Blaze lifted a brow.
"Oh?" Blaze said. "Then what are you doing here?"
Shade's eyes flicked toward the locked booth again.
Then back to Blaze.
Blaze's mouth twitched like she enjoyed the panic she was causing.
Shade forced her face blank.
"I came for a walk," Shade lied.
Blaze smiled wider.
"Sure," Blaze said.
That word again.
Sure.
The knife-word.
Blaze pushed off the fence and stepped closer, slow, controlled, like she was entering a round.
"You didn't answer my message," Blaze said.
Shade's spine stiffened. "I was busy."
Blaze's eyes narrowed, amused.
"Busy," Blaze repeated.
Shade held her gaze with practiced calm.
Blaze's voice lowered.
"And yet," Blaze said, "you still came here."
Shade's stomach flipped.
Blaze stopped at the edge of the ring, fingers curling around the fence.
Then she leaned forward slightly and spoke like she was delivering a verdict.
"I've known," Blaze said softly.
Shade's blood froze.
Blaze's eyes stayed on hers.
"All along," Blaze added.
Shade swallowed.
The gym felt too loud.
Too bright.
Too real.
Blaze's smile faded into something sharper.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" Blaze asked.
Shade's throat tightened.
She forced her voice steady.
"…Notice what."
Blaze's gaze flicked toward the coach's booth.
Then back.
Shade's control cracked for one second.
One.
Blaze caught it instantly.
"That room," Blaze said, almost gently. "The little hiding spot."
Shade's body went rigid.
Blaze's eyes gleamed like teal fire.
"You've been watching me," Blaze said.
Shade stared at her.
Her mind raced—defense scripts, denial scripts, escape scripts—
None of them worked.
Because Blaze knew.
Shade's lips parted.
Then Blaze smiled again—slow, dangerous.
"And after yesterday," Blaze murmured, "you still thought you could disappear?"
Shade's heart stuttered.
Blaze stepped closer, voice low enough to feel like it was meant only for Shade.
"Cute," Blaze said.
Shade's hands clenched at her sides.
She hated that word.
She hated that Blaze said it like she had the right.
Blaze tilted her head.
"So," Blaze said. "Are you going to keep pretending…"
Her smile sharpened.
"…or are you going to talk to me like a normal person?"
Shade's throat tightened.
Her pendant pressed against her chest like a warning.
Because Shade understood this suddenly:
This wasn't Blaze catching her.
This was Blaze cornering her.
And Shade didn't know if she wanted to run—
Or stay.