Liora had already committed to her choice long before she allowed the thought to surface in her mind. She strode down the corridor with deliberate intent, her boots whispering against the cool stone floor, her shoulders held firm in that familiar posture she adopted whenever she convinced herself that control was firmly within her grasp.
She maintained her pace until the bend in the hallway, where the well-known stretch of passage unfolded before her.
Only then did she pause.
Camille lingered outside Noa's door.
She wasn't pacing restlessly or rapping insistently on the wood. Instead, she stood motionless, her robe pulled tightly around her frame, her stance maintained with the fragile exactness of someone clinging to composure through sheer determination alone.
Liora came to a halt.
She hadn't intended to stop; her body simply betrayed her will.
Camille raised her hand and delivered a single, measured knock.
The soft echo rippled through the quiet hall.
Liora remained concealed in the shadows, positioned just far enough away to avoid detection. She assured herself that curiosity alone held her in pce, that she would continue onward in mere moments.
The door swung open.
Noa appeared in the threshold.
Her demeanor revealed no hint of surprise or haste; instead, her features conveyed a steady calm, ced perhaps with a touch of concern, but nothing more disruptive.
Camille spoke words too faint for Liora to discern from her vantage.
Noa listened attentively.
Then, with a subtle gesture, she moved aside to grant entry.
Camille crossed into the room without a backward gnce.
The door eased shut behind her.
The motion carried no urgency, no sense of finality.
It simply closed.
In that instant, Liora felt a chill settle deep within her chest, as if icy water had pooled there uninvited.
Oh.
Anger eluded her entirely, which caught her off guard—no sudden surge, no heated spark, only a muted, empty resolve.
She needed you first.
And then came the softer realization, the one that stung with greater intensity:
And you let her.
Liora released a slow breath, only then aware that she had been holding it captive. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the idea of approaching the door regardless, of rapping sharply or uttering something cutting, or perhaps saying nothing at all.
Instead, she pivoted away.
She avoided returning to her own quarters.
She chose the longer path instead.
The gym's lights already bathed the space in a steady glow.
Liora pushed the door open with more force than required, the sharp bang echoing off the unyielding steel and stone walls. The heavy bag trembled slightly in response to the vibration.
Marisol occupied the room.
She wasn't engaged in vigorous training but rather in a series of unhurried stretches, her bare feet grounded solidly on the mat. She looked up as Liora entered, her gaze keen yet undisturbed.
"Evening, storm."
Liora snatched a set of wraps from the nearby shelf.
"I need to hit something."
Marisol regarded her steadily, her scrutiny lingering just beyond the bounds of casual politeness.
"I noticed."
Liora offered no reply. She bound the wraps around her hands with excessive tightness, her fingers moving in abrupt jerks, before advancing to the bag and smming her fist into it with a resounding crack.
Again.
Again.
Her rhythm faltered from the start—too much raw power, devoid of any measured restraint.
Marisol rose to her full height, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.
"You're aiming straight through it."
Liora delivered another blow, even fiercer.
"Something has you coiled tight again."
No response came.
Another punch followed, this one messier than the st.
"I went to see Noa," Liora admitted finally.
Marisol arched a brow. "And?"
Liora expelled a breath through clenched teeth. "Camille was there."
The bag lurched wildly under the impact.
"She went in."
Marisol let out a soft hum. "Ooooh."
Liora whirled toward her, her eyes bzing.
"Don't."
Marisol's smile held no malice or mockery—only a quiet comprehension.
"So," she continued in a light tone, stepping onto the mat, "you're settling for trying to beat me up tonight?"
Liora gave no answer.
She surged forward.
Her speed was formidable, her strength deceptive in its subtlety. She attacked with fierce combinations, sharp yet imprudent, advancing without the temperance of strategy.
Marisol held her ground without yielding. She countered with redirection.
A fluid step inward. A subtle transfer of bance. A grasp at the wrist that channeled the incoming force sideways rather than halting it abruptly.
"You're overcommitting," Marisol observed evenly, her movements seamless.
Liora intensified her assault.
"You're not angry at Camille."
A sweeping hook followed. Marisol evaded it with ease.
"You're afraid she needed comfort before you did."
Liora growled low in her throat and charged ahead, attempting to overpower her with sheer momentum.
Marisol harnessed that very drive against her.
In one seamless twist, the mat rose to meet Liora.
She collided with it in a winded exhale, Marisol already positioned above her, securing the pin through skillful leverage rather than brute force. Forearms interlocked. Weight distributed perfectly. No escape possible.
They remained locked in that position, their chests heaving in unison, their breaths mingling in the scant distance separating them.
Marisol's tone softened to a murmur.
"You don't know what you are to Noa yet."
Liora swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
She offered no denial.
Marisol lightened her hold—not relinquishing it entirely, but easing enough to transform restraint into invitation.
A quiet moment stretched between them.
Then Marisol, her breathing equally bored, whispered, "Shower?"
Liora paused.
Not out of apprehension.
Out of acknowledgment.
"…Shower," she agreed.
Marisol's smile emerged at st as she stood, extending a hand downward.
Liora accepted it.