Becca doesn't wait. The second I hesitate, she's already on me.
"Get on. Now."
I glare at the treadmill like it just insulted me. "You know, there are more motivational ways to start a training session."
Becca smirks. "Motivation is for people with time. You? You're being hunted."
Right. Hunted.
That word hits harder than I expect. I climb on without another word.
The belt starts slow, but Becca taps the speed up every thirty seconds. She doesn't look at me. Just stands there with her arms crossed like she's trying to decide whether I'm worth the effort.
My legs burn within minutes. Sweat slides down my spine. My breath turns ragged.
But I keep going.
Because I'm done being prey. If they want me, they're going to have to earn it.
"You're stubborn," she mutters after a while, watching me struggle through the pace. "Good. You'll need that."
She hits the stop button before I collapse.
I stumble off the treadmill, legs jelly, lungs on fire. She throws me a bottle of water, which I barely catch.
"Five-minute break," she says. "Then we start with weapons."
I nearly choke. "Are you serious?"
Becca smiles. It's not friendly. "You think the enemy's going to wait while you rest?"
I sit on the bench, panting, watching her walk over to the wall of weapons.
Blades. Axes. Daggers. Staves. Guns.
She grabs a long, curved dagger and turns back toward me, twirling it with practiced ease.
"You're not strong enough to take them head-on. Not yet. So we're going to teach you to strike where it hurts. Fast. Smart. Unexpected."
She holds the blade out to me.
I take it. It's heavier than it looks.
"First," she says, "you learn how not to die. Then we teach you how to kill."
Something in her tone makes my stomach twist. But I nod. I grip the dagger tighter.
No more running. No more hiding.
She circles me slowly.
"Hold it like this. Tight, but not stiff. Elbows loose. Stay balanced."
I mimic her movements, heart thudding. The blade feels foreign in my hand, but there's something… right about it too. Something ancient. Like I was always meant to hold it.
Becca watches me, eyes narrowing. "You've never trained, but your stance isn't bad."
"Thanks?"
She nods once. "Let's see how long you can hold it once someone's trying to take it from you."
She lunges.
I yelp, stumbling back, barely keeping the dagger in my grip. My balance is off. She's fast—blindingly fast—and I'm all instinct and fear.
We move, clash, fall into a rhythm of teaching blows and deflections. My arms ache. My wrist burns.
But I don't drop the blade.
When she finally steps back, chest rising and falling with effort, she gives me a long look.
"You're prey. For now. But you've got teeth."
And for the first time, I believe it.