The moment Nyra stepped out of the washroom, dressed yet feeling utterly bare, the woman from earlier was already waiting by the door. This time, she didn't bother with subtle intimidation—her arms were crossed, her stance wide, and the sharp tilt of her chin said everything: Move, or be moved.
"Ready?" the woman asked, though it sounded more like a command.
Nyra gave a reluctant nod.
Without another word, the woman turned, her heels echoing ominously down the corridor. Nyra followed, the walls closing in tighter with each step. The house—Damien's lair—felt different now. Less of a luxury prison, more of a battlefield she wasn't trained for.
They descended a wide staircase. Morning light spilled through high windows, but it did nothing to warm the tension suffocating her lungs.
As they approached the end of the hall, Zayden appeared, leaning casually against a doorway. His sharp gaze slid over Nyra before settling back on the woman. A brief exchange passed between them—a glance, nothing more—but Nyra caught it. Calculating. Strategic.
"Boss is waiting," Zayden said, stepping aside.
The woman gestured toward a large, double-door office. "After you, little storm."
Nyra's stomach twisted.
She pushed open the door.
Damien was there.
Not behind the desk this time, but standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, city light outlining his silhouette like a predator poised to strike. The crisp lines of his black shirt clung to his broad shoulders, sleeves folded to his elbows, veins visible along his forearms. He looked effortless, yet every inch of him radiated lethal precision. His presence wasn't loud—it was overwhelming. Like the stillness before a gunshot.
"Sit," he said, without turning.
Nyra obeyed, the cold leather chair biting through her thin facade of courage.
Only after a long pause did Damien face her.
His lips curved—not in a smile, but in something sharper. "I don't like wasting time, Nyra. So, let's make this clear. The life you knew, it's dead. Buried. And you… you're going to be something else entirely."
Her throat tightened. "And if I don't?"
Damien's brow arched slightly, amused. "You already did, the moment you walked back through my doors."
A knock interrupted them.
"Come in."
The door opened.
In walked a woman unlike anyone Nyra had seen in this world of velvet threats. Reina. Damien didn't introduce her immediately. He didn't need to. The atmosphere shifted, colder, sharper.
Reina was tall, built with the grace of a panther and the rawness of a soldier. Her dark hair was tied in a severe braid, scars peeking from beneath the sleeve of her combat-fit attire. Not the elegant dresses of Damien's usual entourage. No, Reina was function over beauty—yet there was an undeniable allure in her brutal simplicity.
Her gaze landed on Nyra with zero interest, as one might look at a defective weapon.
Damien finally spoke. "Nyra, meet Reina. She's going to make sure you don't die too easily."
Reina's lips barely twitched. "Charming introduction, boss."
Nyra sat straighter, fighting the urge to shrink under Reina's unapologetic scrutiny.
"She looks soft," Reina said bluntly, circling the chair. "Too emotional. Too green. Too broken."
Damien didn't disagree. "That's your job, Reina. Fix her. Or break her properly."
Reina stopped behind Nyra's chair, leaning close. Her breath ghosted Nyra's ear. "We'll see how much of you are worth salvaging."
The chill that slid down Nyra's spine was worse than any nightmare.
"This isn't a lesson in etiquette, sweetheart," Reina added, stepping away. "This is survival."
Damien walked back to his desk, picking up a file. "You'll start today. No comforts. No hand-holding. If you fail—" his gaze met Nyra's, unflinching, "—no one will bother digging your grave."
Nyra's fingers dug into the armrests. Fear, anger, pride—all coiled tight in her chest.
"I won't fail," she said, though her voice betrayed a quiver.
Reina chuckled darkly. "They always say that in the beginning."
Damien gestured dismissively. "Take her."
Reina didn't wait. "On your feet, princess. Let's see if you can walk without tripping over your ego."
Nyra stood, following Reina out. Every step away from Damien's office felt like walking deeper into enemy territory.
But wasn't that what she wanted? Revenge never came without blood.
As they moved through the mansion's lower levels, the décor changed—less polished, more brutal. Concrete walls. Steel doors. Training grounds.
This wasn't high society.
This was the crucible where pawns were forged into players.
And Reina—she was the hammer.
Nyra remembers the previous scene of blood pool she stopped. Reina noticed but didn't say anything and kept on going. Soon she was no where to be found. Nyra felt a urge to throw up but she sat and tried to calm her nerves down.
But the corridor didn't wait for her to gather herself. It pulled her forward like gravity.
The first door on the right was already ajar. Just enough for a whisper of light to bleed through, warm and amber—but that warmth felt deceptive, like the sun caught inside a lion's mouth. Nyra hesitated at the threshold. Her fingers curled around the edge of the door.
Then she stepped in.
The room smelled of steel, gun oil, and a faint trace of jasmine that didn't quite belong. No windows. Just concrete, equipment racks, lockers, and in the middle of it all—her.
Reina.
She stood by a table lined with weapons, blades and tools Nyra couldn't name, her back straight, arms crossed, boots polished enough to catch reflections of nightmares. Her hair was slicked back into a cruel knot. The lines of her body were cut from discipline. Not one inch of softness. Not one curve that wasn't honed to function. Her presence alone carved silence into something hostile.
"You're late," Reina said, without turning.
Nyra didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat had gone dry.
Reina turned then, slowly, and her eyes found Nyra like crosshairs—cool, grey, and void of sympathy. Her face was beautiful in a way knives were beautiful—sharp, sleek, and meant for damage.
"You look like shit," she added bluntly. "Still wearing yesterday's regret?"
Nyra swallowed, steadying her voice. "I wasn't told what to wear."
"You weren't told anything because you're not here to be comfortable. You're here to be remade."
The words hung in the air like a verdict.
Reina stepped forward, boots clicking against the concrete, until she was a breath away. She smelled like sweat and control. She tilted her head, looking Nyra up and down with the kind of scrutiny that wasn't sexual, but surgical.
"Damien said you were a fighter," Reina said coldly. "But all I see is a girl who fell off a cliff and crawled back up hoping the world would be different. Spoiler alert: It's not."
Nyra's jaw clenched. "I didn't ask for any of this."
Reina smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Neither did I."
Then—without warning—Reina slapped her.
Not hard enough to knock her down. Just hard enough to burn.
Nyra staggered back, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a curse.
"That's the last time you speak without permission," Reina said, voice calm, controlled, deadly. "I'm not your therapist. I'm not your friend. I'm not Damien. You won't get warnings from me, Elara."
Elara. The name still felt like a blade lodged in her ribs.
Reina continued. "You're going to forget Nyra Hayes. That girl is dead. You buried her. I don't care if you mourn her. But you will not carry her into this training. From now on, you're Elara. And Elara owes me obedience. Loyalty. Precision."
She walked back to the table and picked up a sleek black folder. Tossed it onto the floor between them.
"Here's what your life looks like now: training from 4 a.m. to 10 p.m., no breaks, no calls, no mirrors. You'll be fed, monitored, punished, and taught. You'll learn how to shoot, how to seduce, how to disappear in plain sight. You'll learn pain and how to weaponise it. You'll be broken and built again."
Nyra was shaking—but not from fear anymore. From the rage bubbling beneath her ribs.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said, voice like glass grinding against cement.
Reina met her gaze without blinking. "Good. Fear gets you killed. But arrogance? That gets others killed too. I suggest you watch your mouth."
And then, just like that, Reina turned away. "Change into the clothes in that locker. Your training begins now."
Nyra stood frozen for a beat. Her cheek still throbbed from the slap. But something else pulsed stronger—something dangerously close to resolve.
She turned, opened the locker.
Inside: black tactical gear. A pair of combat boots. A tight, sleeveless top. A utility belt.
No choice. No question.
Just the uniform of her new reality.
The training arena wasn't a gym. It wasn't even a place designed for humans. Cold concrete stretched beneath Nyra's bare feet, the air thick with sweat, iron, and the faintest whisper of old blood. Metal racks lined the walls—combat gear, weapons, restraints. The smell was sterile. Surgical. A place for dissecting weakness.
Reina stood at the center, arms crossed, eyes cold. waiting for Nyra to change into the clothes provided to her.
"This," she said, gesturing to the space, "is where the truth gets peeled out of people. Forget pretty words, Nyra. Forget your tragic little fairytales. Here, you bleed or you survive."
Nyra's jaw tightened. She wasn't stupid. She knew what Reina saw when she looked at her—a pampered girl playing brave in a world built to crush her.
"I'm not afraid of pain," Nyra said.
Reina smirked. "No, you're afraid of breaking. And that's worse."
Without warning, Reina threw a wooden staff toward her as Nyra approached her. Nyra fumbled, catching it awkwardly.
"Defense first," Reina said, circling her like a predator. "But not the dainty kind you learned at rich-people academies. Here, you defend like your life depends on it. Because it does."
The first blow came fast.
Reina's staff sliced through the air, aiming straight for Nyra's ribs. Instinct made Nyra block, but the impact rattled her bones. Pain bloomed instantly.
"Sloppy," Reina barked. "Again."
Another strike. Harder. Nyra's grip faltered, her breath hitching.
"Do you think your enemies will hold back because you flinch pretty?" Crack. Another blow, this time to her thigh. Her legs buckled, but she didn't fall.
The arena blurred at the edges, but Nyra stood firm.
Hit after hit, Reina didn't slow. She was relentless, a machine honed for war. And Nyra—she was the glass slowly fracturing under pressure.
Reina knocked the staff from Nyra's hands.
"You're wasting my time," she said, voice sharp as knives. "Damien doesn't need ornaments. He needs weapons. And right now, you're just decoration."
Those words cut deeper than the bruises.
Nyra's breathing turned ragged. Her fingers curled into fists. Rage simmered beneath her skin—not just at Reina, but at herself. At Nolan. At this entire vicious world that had chewed her up.
"I'm not decoration," Nyra spat, lunging to retrieve the staff.
Reina's eyebrow arched. "Prove it."
The next assault was different. Reina closed in, using her body weight, pushing Nyra to grapple, to fight without elegance. Nyra's hair stuck to her face, her skin slick with sweat, lungs burning. Every nerve screamed for mercy.
But there was no mercy here.
Reina slammed Nyra to the mat.
For a moment, Nyra didn't move.
"Get up," Reina ordered.
The world spun.
"Up."
The voice was distant, but the venom in it struck home.
Nyra's fingers dug into the rough mat. Her arms trembled as she pushed herself up. It wasn't strength. It was pure defiance.
Her vision cleared. She saw Reina. Saw the disdain. And in that moment, something inside Nyra snapped—not like breaking glass, but like steel bending under heat.
She stood.
"I said I'm not decoration," Nyra repeated, raising the staff again. Her voice was raw, scraped clean of any illusion of control.
Reina's lips twitched—not quite approval, but close.
"Better," Reina said, taking position. "Let's see how long you last."
The session continued. Brutal. Unforgiving. By the end, Nyra's body was a canvas of fresh bruises, but she was still on her feet.
Not because she won.
But because she refused to lose.
As Reina called the session to an end, she tossed Nyra a bottle of water.
"You'll hate me before this is over," Reina said, wiping her hands on a towel. "But you'll thank me when you're still breathing."
Nyra caught the bottle with shaky hands. "I already hate you."
Reina's laughter echoed off the concrete.
"Good. You're learning."
As they left the arena, Nyra's legs barely obeyed her, but her spine remained straight. Each step hurt, but it was hers.
This was no longer about revenge.
This was survival.
And Reina—brutal, merciless Reina—was the necessary evil she had to endure to become something more than a pawn.
Outside the training wing, Damien's silhouette waited at the far end of the corridor, hands in pockets, watching.
He said nothing as Reina approached.
But the faintest curl at the corner of his lips said everything.
Nyra hadn't passed.
But she hadn't broken either.
And that was enough—for now.