Chapter 3 Three

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the bout with Darius over and over in my head. The way he moved. The way he didn't move. The way he made me feel like I was fighting smoke.

Three points. I'd scored three points. And he'd let me. I knew that now. He'd let me score. He'd let me win. He'd let me think I was in control.

And then he'd walked away.

You have to decide what you're willing to give up.

What did that even mean? What was I supposed to give up? My talent? My ambition? My drive to be the best?

I sat up, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through old videos. Westbrook matches. State championships. Me, younger, faster, hungrier. I watched myself destroy opponents. I watched myself laugh when they fell. I watched myself become the monster everyone said I was.

I didn't look away. I couldn't.

At 4 a.m., I made a decision.

The gym was empty when I arrived. I'd expected that. It was too early for anyone to be here. Too early for coaches or students or anyone else who might ask questions I didn't want to answer.

But Darius was already there.

He was sitting on the bleachers, a notebook open in his lap, writing something. He didn't look up when I walked in. He didn't acknowledge me at all. It was like I was invisible.

"I'm here," I said.

"I can see that."

"I want to learn."

He still didn't look up. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I hesitated. The question caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me why I wanted to fence. They'd asked if I wanted to. They'd assumed I did. But why?

"Because I want to be the best," I said.

"That's not a reason."

"That's my reason."

He finally looked up. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He studied me for a long moment, then closed the notebook and stood.

"Follow me."

He led me to the equipment room. It was small and cramped, filled with old gear. Masks hanging on hooks. Foils stacked in racks. A faint smell of sweat and dust and something else. Something older.

"Take off your shoes," he said.

"What?"

"Take off your shoes. And your socks. And your jacket."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Because you're not going to need them."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him this was stupid. But something in his expression stopped me. So I took off my shoes. My socks. My jacket. I stood there in my t-shirt and jeans, feeling ridiculous.

"Now," he said, "you're going to walk."

"Walk where?"

"Back and forth. From this wall to that wall. For one hour."

I laughed. "You're joking."

"I never joke."

"This is stupid. I came here to fence, not to walk."

"You came here to learn," he said. "And the first thing you need to learn is that fencing is not about your hands. It's not about your speed. It's not about your power. It's about your feet. Your distance. Your control. And right now, you have none of those things."

"I'm the best fencer in the state."

"You're the fastest. That's not the same thing."

I felt my temper flare. My hands curled into fists. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to prove him wrong. But I remembered what had happened last time I lost control. The broken wrist. The expulsion. The look on Coach Hensley's face.

I took a breath.

"Fine," I said. "One hour."

The walking was harder than I expected.

Not physically. Physically, it was nothing. But mentally, it was torture. Back and forth. Back and forth. No purpose. No goal. Just walking. Just existing.

Darius watched me the entire time. He didn't say anything. He didn't offer encouragement or criticism. He just watched. His eyes followed me like a hawk tracking prey.

Halfway through, I started to get angry. This was pointless. This was a waste of time. I could be fencing. I could be training. I could be doing something that mattered.

But I kept walking.

At the end of the hour, Darius stood up.

"Good," he said. "Tomorrow, same time."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"What did I learn?"

He looked at me. For a moment, his expression softened. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to notice.

"You learned that you can do something without winning," he said. "That's the first lesson."

The next day, I walked again.

And the day after that. And the day after that.

I walked for a week. No fencing. No foils. No strips. Just walking. Just breathing. Just existing.

Every day, Darius watched. Every day, he said almost nothing. And every day, I felt something shifting inside me. Something I couldn't name.

On the fifth day, I asked him a question.

"Why did you quit?"

He didn't answer right away. He just looked at me with those dark eyes. Then he said, "Because I forgot why I started."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I was so focused on winning that I stopped loving the sport. I stopped loving anything. I became a machine. A weapon. And when I finally realized what I'd become, it was too late."

I didn't understand. Not fully. But something in his voice made my chest tighten.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I'll tell you when you're ready to hear it."

On the sixth day, a girl walked into the gym.

She was short, with black hair pulled back in a ponytail and glasses that made her look smarter than everyone else in the room. She was carrying a tablet and a notebook stuffed with papers. She stopped when she saw me.

"You're the new kid," she said.

"I'm not new. I've been here for a week."

"You've been here for a week, and you haven't come to practice once. Coach Miller is losing his mind." She walked toward me, her eyes scanning me like I was a puzzle she was trying to solve. "I'm Maya. Team manager."

"I know who you are."

She raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Darius mentioned you."

She glanced at Darius, who was sitting on the bleachers, watching us with his usual expressionless face. Something passed between them. Something I couldn't read.

"So," she said, turning back to me, "are you going to join the team or what?"

"I'm training."

"Training isn't the same as joining."

"It's close enough."

She studied me for a moment. Then she pulled out her tablet and started scrolling through something. "You were at Westbrook. State champion your sophomore year. Runner-up last year. Two-time regional champion. And then you got expelled for breaking someone's wrist."

"I didn't break his wrist. It was an accident."

"That's not what the reports say."

I felt my jaw tighten. "The reports are wrong."

She looked up at me. Her eyes were sharp. Analytical. She wasn't judging me. She was observing me. It was somehow worse.

"Maybe," she said. "But it doesn't matter what I think. It matters what the team thinks. And right now, they think you're a threat."

"I haven't even met them."

"You don't have to meet someone to know they're dangerous. Your reputation precedes you." She tucked her tablet under her arm. "If you want to be part of this team, you have to prove you're not the person everyone thinks you are."

"And if I don't want to be part of this team?"

"Then you're going to be very lonely for the next two years."

She turned and walked away. I watched her go, my chest tight with something I couldn't name.

That night, I went home and found my mom waiting for me.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands. She looked tired. She always looked tired. But there was something different in her eyes tonight. Something that made my stomach drop.

"We need to talk," she said.

I sat down across from her. "About what?"

"The school called. They said you've been coming to the gym every morning before class. They said you've been meeting with someone. A student."

"It's just training."

"Training for what?"

I hesitated. "Fencing."

She set down her cup. Her hands were shaking. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.

"I thought you were done with fencing," she said.

"I thought so too."

"What changed?"

I didn't know how to answer. What had changed? A ghost in a gym. A text in the middle of the night. A feeling I couldn't name and couldn't shake.

"I met someone," I said. "Someone who understands."

"Understand what?"

"Me."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and took my hand. Her fingers were cold. Her grip was tight.

"I love you," she said. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"I'm not going to pretend I understand what you're going through. I'm not going to pretend I know what's best for you. But I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Don't let this become your whole life. Don't let fencing become the only thing that matters. Because if it does, you're going to lose yourself. And I can't watch that happen again."

I stared at her. At her tired eyes and her shaking hands and the gray in her hair that hadn't been there a year ago. She'd sacrificed everything for me. Everything. And I'd repaid her by becoming someone she barely recognized.

"I promise," I said.

I didn't know if I meant it.

The next morning, I walked into the gym and found Darius waiting for me.

He wasn't sitting on the bleachers. He wasn't watching from the corner. He was standing on the strip, a foil in his hand.

"Today," he said, "you fence."

I felt something flicker in my chest. Excitement. Fear. Anticipation.

"What's the lesson?" I asked.

"No lesson. Just fence."

I walked to the rack, pulled down a foil, and stepped onto the strip. Darius faced me, his expression unreadable.

"En garde," he said.

I raised my foil.

And then I attacked.