Rest, it turns out, is a lie.
Or maybe it’s just another form of preparation—the kind that doesn’t announce itself as dangerous until you’re already inside it.
I shower first. Slow. Let the heat sink into muscles still humming from drills that never touched skin but still left me wired. I scrub my hair twice, nails against scalp, grounding myself in sensation until my thoughts finally line up instead of colliding.
Orion’s voice echoes in memory—measured, deliberate.
Silas’s corrections follow—precise, surgical.
Authority arrives politely.
Waiting is power if you choose it.
Don’t escalate—redirect.
I rinse. Step out. Dry off.
This time I choose softness. Not armor. Not a statement. Just a thin knit top and loose pants that let my body exist without commentary. I braid my hair over
