Her Unrequited Love

Pant… Huff… Her lungs burned, her breath tearing through her throat in ragged bursts. She has to reach the goal. She has to get the flag. By any means. That was the only thought pounding through her mind, drowning out everything else. If she could just run faster—just push her body one step further—freedom was within reach. The flag wasn’t just cloth. It was escape. It was life. It was the freedom she had clawed for in silence, the freedom she had starved and bled for, the freedom she had been denied her entire existence. And she would seize it. Sweat streamed down Easther’s grimy face, mixing with streaks of blood before dripping into the dark puddle beneath her boots. Her chest rose and fell like a war drum, her body trembling with exhaustion. A deep gash ran the length of her left arm, crimson soaking her sleeve, while countless smaller cuts marred her skin. Each wound screamed with every movement, but she didn’t falter. Her hair, once neatly bound, clung in tangled strands to her temples, plastered by sweat, mud, and blood. The filth could not dim the harsh beauty of her face—a beauty edged with steel, her sharp gaze cutting through the trees like a predator on the hunt. Her legs pounded against the earth, but every stride grew heavier. Her limbs were numb, her muscles stiff, her stomach gnawed with hunger. Her vision wavered—clear one moment, blurring the next as dizziness clawed at her. I can’t stop. Not now. Not when freedom is this close. The thought became a litany, a weapon she beat against her own breaking body. But as her pace faltered, the air behind her shifted—danger thickened, sharp as a blade grazing her neck. A killing intent. Her eyes flew open, and without hesitation she launched upward, her body coiling like a spring as she caught the branch of a tree. Swish—Thud! A knife hissed through the air where her neck had been a heartbeat ago. The blade bit into the trunk before her, half its length buried deep in solid wood. Its cold glint mocked her, promising death had she been slower. The strength of the throw was monstrous. Whoever was chasing her wanted her corpse nailed to the forest floor. Easther’s pulse thundered, but her face remained calm, sharp, unreadable. She moved again, fluid as shadow, leaping across branches with barely a rustle of leaves. The canopy swallowed her figure, the thick foliage painting her invisible. Below, the assassin emerged from the thicket, knife hand tense, eyes scanning. Hidden in the leaves, Easther’s gaze narrowed with disdain. From above, she studied him with the still patience of a hunter. Bloodthirstiness flared in her eyes, cold and feral. She crawled along the branches, sleek as a panther, her movements precise, silent. Then, with a sudden burst, she dropped from the sky—knees bent, arms spread wide like a raptor plunging upon its prey. The man’s instincts screamed. He spun, knife raised, his ears straining for sound. His narrowed eyes gleamed with murderous resolve. He knew who she was—Nine. Even half-dead, she was lethal. Missing his strike had doomed him. If she retaliated, his fate was sealed. He braced for her. Trickle… The faint sound of liquid dripping onto dry leaves drew his head to the side—blood. Too late. Easther fell upon him, her legs snapping around his neck like iron chains. She twisted with brutal force, her teeth gritted, her body a lever of unyielding precision. Crack. The sound was soft, final. His body collapsed, lifeless, the knife slipping uselessly from his hand. Easther unfurled her legs and landed lightly on the ground. She crouched beside the corpse, prying the weapon from his limp fingers. For a moment she lingered, brushing her bloodstained hand over his face, closing the wide, disbelieving eyes that stared up at nothing. Turmoil flickered in her gaze. But it was fleeting. A shadow, an illusion. It vanished before it could take root. Without a word, she stood and walked away, leaving the broken body behind. Her figure dissolved into the dense forest, absorbed by its endless green. Somewhere else, far removed from the blood-soaked forest… In a dimly lit room, massive screens glowed, replaying the c*****e. Men and women sat in shadow, their expressions sharp, detached. A hoarse laugh cut through the silence. “Number Nine… she’s doing well. She’ll be the one to claim the flag.” Another voice, cold and gruff, countered, “Skill is not enough. Survival depends on more than ruthlessness. She will need a mind unbreakable.” “She has it,” a third voice interjected, smooth and confident, belonging to a man whose golden spectacles caught the screen’s glow. “They’ve starved her for a week. Bled her for days. Yet she still kills with one strike. Who else shows such precision? Such calm under fire? She isn’t a girl—she’s the perfect weapon.” The gruff voice remained unmoved. “Weapons break. Let us see if she survives the Fifth Zone. Only then will we know if she is worthy.” The screens flickered. Easther’s lone figure pressed forward, swallowed once more by the merciless forest.