Chapter 30
1168 Words
The next morning came too soon, cruel and bright through the narrow window slits. Riley woke to a body that felt like it had been run over—every muscle screaming, thighs burning, core tender in a way that made her cheeks heat with fresh shame. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Pain lanced up her left leg immediately; she bit her lip to keep from crying out and limped toward the attached bathroom.
The shower was scalding, the kind that turned skin pink and steam thick enough to hide in. She stood under the spray until the water ran cold, scrubbing at the marks Armani had left—fingerprints on her hips, bite marks on her neck and shoulder—like she could erase last night if she tried hard enough. She couldn’t. The ache between her legs was proof enough.
When she stepped out, towel wrapped tight around her, she found new clothes laid across the foot of the bed. Black training leggings, a fitted cropped tank in dark gray, fresh sports bra, socks, and running shoes. All in her size. All brand new.
Training clothes.
No way.
They expected her to start immediately?
She stared at the outfit like it might bite her. Then, with a resigned curse under her breath, she dressed. The fabric clung too close, too revealing after a night of being stripped bare in every sense. She pulled her damp hair into a messy ponytail and limped out of the room.
The training yard was already alive with noise—grunts, thuds of fists on pads, the sharp crack of bodies hitting mats. Girls moved in pairs or groups, sweat gleaming under the morning sun. Some sparred with vicious focus; others ran drills, feet pounding dirt.
Before Riley could orient herself, two figures broke from the crowd and sprinted toward her.
“Riley!” Skylar’s voice cracked as she reached her first, throwing her arms around Riley in a hug so tight it hurt. Quinn was right behind, tears already streaming down her face.
“Oh my God, we thought you were dead,” Skylar sobbed into Riley’s shoulder. “We all did. The warehouse—everyone said no one made it out. If Martha hadn’t told us you’d slipped away before the blast…”
Quinn pulled back just enough to cup Riley’s face, thumbs brushing away nonexistent tears. “We’re so happy you’re alive. So happy.”
Riley managed a weak smile, patting their backs awkwardly. “I’m… here. I’m okay.”
They didn’t notice the limp. Not yet.
A few yards away, Amy sauntered past with Lila and Lola flanking her like loyal shadows. Amy’s eyes slid over Riley with open contempt.
“Should’ve just died,” she said loudly enough for half the yard to hear. “Weak little thing. Only survived because she got lucky.”
Lila snickered. Lola echoed it with a mean little laugh. They kept walking, heads high.
Riley’s jaw clenched. She didn’t respond. She’d learned long ago that words with Amy were wasted breath.
She turned back to Skylar and Quinn. “Where’s Martha now? I need to talk to her.”
Quinn’s face fell. She exchanged a glance with Skylar.
“She… didn’t make it,” Quinn said quietly. “They brought her back here after the mission. Burns were too severe. She died two days later.”
Riley’s stomach dropped. A flicker of guilt twisted through her—real, sharp—followed immediately by something darker, more selfish.
Good, a small voice whispered. If Martha hadn’t talked, maybe the triplets wouldn’t have found me so fast.
She shoved the thought down. Hard.
Across the yard, Jasmine and Kika were locked in a brutal spar. Jasmine—wild cat number 89—was dominating, landing elbow strikes and knee drives that had Kika (101) staggering. Serial stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, shouting critiques.
“Too slow, 101! You fight like you’re scared of pain—newsflash, it’s coming anyway!”
Jasmine swept Kika’s legs; Kika hit the mat hard. Serial barked a laugh.
Then her gaze shifted. Landed on Riley.
A slow, predatory smile curled her lips.
“Oh look who we have here,” Serial called, loud enough to draw eyes from every corner of the yard. “The runaway wild cat. Quite surprising how out of the ten that went on that mission, number 100 was the only one who survived. Lucky, I guess.”
She scoffed, the sound dripping disdain. Serial was number one—untouchable, legendary, the girl who’d clawed her way to the top and never looked back.
“You know what?” Serial continued, stepping onto the mat. “Why don’t we spar together.”
A ripple of shock moved through the yard. Serial didn’t spar with low ranks. Ever.
Riley’s stomach twisted. “Actually… I’m not in a good state right now.”
Serial’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Are you turning down a spar during training time?”
She hissed the last words like an accusation.
Before Riley could answer, the heavy metal door at the far end of the yard banged open.
The triplets entered.
Lucas first, calm and assessing. Theo behind him, expression unreadable. Armani last—eyes immediately locking on Riley. He noticed the limp the second she shifted her weight. His gaze darkened.
“What’s going on here?” Lucas asked, voice even.
Armani didn’t wait for an answer. He strode forward, stopping a few feet from Riley.
“Number 100,” he said, face perfectly blank. “Is there a problem with your leg? Why can’t you stand properly?”
Riley’s mind screamed every curse she knew at him.
She forced a tight smile. “Actually, yesterday night I encountered a monster-looking bat. It startled me, I tripped, hurt my leg.”
Armani’s frown flickered—barely there—before a low chuckle escaped him.
“Well,” he said, “not an excuse to skip training.”
Riley shot him a look that clearly said you can’t be serious.
Serial stepped forward, all false sweetness. “I asked her to spar with me, Master Armani, and she refused.”
Armani’s eyes never left Riley’s face.
“She will spar with you right now,” he declared.
Riley’s eyes widened. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Armani—”
He cut her off with a single raised brow. The message was clear: Don’t test me.
Serial’s grin turned vicious.
“Perfect,” she purred, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s see if number 100 still has any fight left after running away like a scared kitten.”
The yard went quiet.
Everyone watching.
Riley limped forward onto the mat, every step screaming protest.
She met Armani’s gaze one last time—pleading, furious, exhausted.
He only tilted his head slightly.
A silent order.
Fight.
Or fall.
She stepped into the circle.
And the yard held its breath.
- Writer
