The corridor swallowed the sound of my footsteps. Each one felt too loud, though I was walking as softly as I could manage, as if my very presence in this part of the Academy was something I needed to apologize for. I had rehearsed what I would say the entire way from the North Wing: quiet lines murmured beneath my breath, words crafted and recrafted in my mind like fragile glass ornaments. There must have been a mistake. I didn’t volunteer. I didn’t know my name was on the list. I can’t do it.
But no matter how I twisted the phrases, no matter how humble or respectful I made them sound, they never came out quite right. Because underneath the practiced innocence, the reality still throbbed like a pulse: I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to be removed. And that alone felt like a small rebel
