"Your movements are still a little too big. At this distance, they should be small and quick."
I tap the tip of my foil against the floor—two sharp metallic thuds echo through the room. "Like TACK TACK. That's the tempo I want. Let's do five more repetitions."
"One—thump thump." The rhythmic sound of her feet satisfied my ears. "Two—thump thump. Three—thump thump. Four—thump thump. Five—thump thump."
"Still needs some work, remember to keep your movements smaller. I'll see you next week."
Miles always sticks me with the Smurfs. Yeah, you heard me—Smurfs. That's what we call the club's newest recruits. Small gremlins stuffed into oversized blue club jackets, swinging their foils so violently you'd think someone owed them money.
Sure, I'm a retired Olympic foil fencer, and no matter how much preparation Miles gets, he'll only ever dream of beating me. But honestly? I couldn't care less. I like teaching these younglings—showing them how to lunge, how to recover, how to take the blade. Sanding down their rough edges, watching them refine their form until—boom—they look like fencers who've been at it for years.
So if Miles wants to drool over young, promising talent, he can. Me? I don't need any of that. One loss in the Olympic semi-finals was all it took for me to walk away, and now everyone calls me stupid for quitting in my prime. But those people? They're losers, conditioned from losing. What do they know about how I feel?
They'll all forget about me anyway. After all, I'm one of them now—just another loser.
My eyes follow Miles as he wraps up a private lesson with an older student. It's painful to watch. The kid swings his sword around like he's some kind of angry pirate, and Miles doesn't even lift a finger to correct the poor kid. He might as well give the kid candy for every time he smacks the wall with another one of his comically large parries.
Miles thinks that as long as you put the touch on, the technique doesn't matter. But I say, how are you supposed to hit the target when your point is everywhere but the target?
A picture of me fencing at the Olympics hung on the wall above Miles and his student.
"Good job today. I can really see your improvement," Miles said, dismissing his student.
The wooden floorboards let out a soft, desperate creak as he approached. My eyes stayed locked on the picture as if staring hard enough might make it burst into flames.
Miles sat next to me, his grinning face glinting in the corner of my eye. His gaze was burning into my cheek, begging to be noticed.
"I hate that picture."
"I know you do, Jude. You say it every day. But I'm not taking it down—it's good publicity." Miles winks at me.
Miles and I are the same age, but despite his childish tendencies, he feels like my senior. I suppose being in charge will do that to a person—even if he doesn't dress the part. At first glance, you'd think he was headed to a skate park with his black sweatpants and a light gray Beatles T-shirt that was a couple of sizes too big.
"It'd be good for publicity if you ditched the silly outfit for something more professional."
Miles frowned, glancing down at his overly casual attire. "What's wrong with the Beatles?"
"Have you ever seen our old coach wear a Beatles shirt to practice?"
Miles's laugh sounded like a sheep. Something about it was so contagious, I couldn't help but chuckle.
"I don't think I could take him seriously." Miles was still chuckling.
A moment of silence passed between us.
"Our jobs would be a lot easier if he was still here," Miles said.
My eyes darted to the ground. Another awkward silence filled the room.
Miles and I were scraping for pennies—that much was true. Back when the club was making bank and kids were winning medals, I was training for the Olympics. Dimitry was a grumpy old fart, but he was a damn good coach. He ran the club while I was overseas, kicking my own ass in training. But he was getting old, and some kind of illness was wearing him down. I never bothered asking about it. We were on pretty crappy terms back then.
He wanted me to stay and train at the club, but the truth was, fencing with Miles was pointless. The last time he competed was back in the Stone Age—he'd retired early to become a coach. Sure, we had other strong talent at the club, but I needed good senior bouting. Eventually, it was too much for Dimitry. His health declined, and he handed the club over to Miles. The two of them always got along, and Dimitry resented me for leaving.
Then everything fell apart.
The coaches were the first to go. A lot of them didn't like Miles's leadership—though I think jealousy played a role too. Then came the students. Most of them had already ditched when their favorite coaches left, and the few that stayed were too many for Miles to handle alone.
After the Olympics, I took it as a sign—it was time to stop and help Miles get the club back on its feet.
"I've been thinking—maybe it's time to change things up. I'd like you to work with some of my older boys. In the meantime, I'll take the Smurfs off your hands."
The disbelief on my face couldn't be helped and Miles definitely noticed as well because he started laughing like a sheep again.
"You're joking, right?"
"No. I've run my program at this club for four years, and we still haven't won a national medal. I'm not so egotistical that I can ignore that. If you have something to teach my fencers before nationals, I want your help."
A sigh escaped from my mouth, as I thought it over.
"I guess I could... Let me think about it."
"Alright. We'll talk tomorrow."
Our hands clasped together with a crisp smack, the sound echoing through the club as we said our goodbyes. Outside, my eyes watch as Miles hobbles away before I turn my attention to the mess we call the Bay Area Fencing Academy. At the end of the day, you would think it was a daycare with leftover jackets, chip bags, and plastic bottles just lying on the floor.
Upstairs, there's a studio apartment the size of a shoebox.
I struck a deal with Miles: if I cleaned the club after hours, the room was mine.
Cleaning is strangely relaxing. Something about the isolation, the repetitive motions—picking things up, wiping surfaces—and the occasional car passing by lets my mind go completely quiet.
Sounds peaceful, right? Until you realize it also means locking up the club.
I have to arm-wrestle God himself just to get the damn thing to turn. And when it finally does, it screeches so loud it could burst an eardrum.
Miles keeps saying we should replace it, but neither of us has the money. At this point, it's a waiting game—either the lock gives in, or I give out.
In the dark, only my footsteps echo.
The smooth wooden handrail guides me as I stumble up the stairs. Living in the club feels like it's part of me. It's hard to explain, but being fully immersed in what I do feeds my obsession.
A hissing sound—like a snake coiling around my neck—whispers in my ear. My breath hitches. The wooden handrail feels suddenly colder, its grain shifting under my palm like scales.
"Hello?" I jerk my head sideways, but the club's shadows cling thick and still. Down at my feet, the floorboards creak, echoing the hiss's rhythm. *Tack tack. Thump thump.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Tired. Just tired..
I grip the doorknob, turn it, and push into my room.
Everything is just as I left it—perfect. A soft, flowery scent greets me, subtle enough to mask the club's ever-present sweat without being overpowering. My tightly tucked bed sits alone in the corner. The springs squeak as they take my weight. It wasn't fancy, but it did its job.
Before sleeping, I torture myself with my Olympic semi-final loss.
Again and again, I watch it play out on my stupid phone, analyzing every detail, running every scenario, but nothing ever changes.
CRACK!
The sharp snap of breaking glass jolts me upright.
Downstairs, rain spatters against the wooden floor.
I push myself up, but my head spins. My hand nudges the door open a crack. Beyond it, the stairwell is swallowed in darkness.
I grip the handrail, my feet fumbling down the stairs. With each step, the sound of rain grows louder. But the stairs never end. The rain never stops getting louder.
The stairs were never this damn long.
I turn my head back—the light from my room has completely vanished. Only darkness remains, stretching infinitely in every direction.
My foot finds the next step. The rain swells into a deafening roar. Was it even supposed to rain tonight?
"This can't be real."
A faint glow appears at the bottom of the stairwell, pulsing slightly—growing brighter with every second.
I freeze. My hand slides into my pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth back of my phone.
"Hello?" My voice is hoarse. "Who's there?!"
A hissing voice slithers from the glowing light.
"I have many names, but you can call me Edon."
"Show yourself!" My voice shakes.
"As you wish."
A powerful force yanks me forward. I snatch onto the railing, gripping tightly to keep my balance. My feet slip from under me, stretching toward the light as if pulled by invisible hands.
"Help! Someone!" My desperate shriek vanishes into the darkness.
My body stretches unnaturally, my feet swallowed by the light. Sweat slicks my palms, making it harder to hold on. My grip weakens—one finger slipping, then another, until the last one gives way.
Blinding light engulfs me.
Through the slits of my eyelids, I glimpse a blue sky and drifting clouds. Something furry presses against my legs—then suddenly vanishes as I lurch backward, slamming onto my back.
The air is knocked from my lungs.
I groan as I roll onto my back, my body aching like I've been hit by a freight train. My hand presses against the smooth ground, trying to push myself up.
A cloaked figure looms over me, covered from head to toe in thick black fur.
"What…" Before I can finish, it grabs me by my club jacket with the grip of an elephant, hoisting me up and tucking me under its arm like a sack of flour.
"Put me down!" I struggle, pushing against its grasp, but its hold is like iron.
Two men in red and gold uniforms appear from around the corner of a towering building made of what looks like gold and marble.
"Shak ling tok!" They shout as they run toward us, looking over their shoulders, then back at me, pointing and speaking in a language I don't understand.
My body jolts forward as the cloaked beast slams its feet into the marble, crushing it as if it were cardboard. I cling tightly as buildings and towering arches of gold and marble blur past us.
"This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real." I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping even tighter to whatever is carrying me.
The beast slows as we near a crowd gathered in the street, dressed in elegant garments and adorned with jewelry that looked too expensive to even touch. In front of them, I spot a row of booths, each one manned by an official wearing a uniform similar to the people who were chasing us.
A woman in a flowing red dress turns and spots us. Her expression twists with disgust—then quickly shifts to fear as she backs away.
"Vadgaz!" she shouts, turning to the officials.
One by one, the crowd turns to look at the beast and me. Without hesitation, the beast barrels forward, shoving people aside. The uniformed guards weave through the chaos, still in pursuit, while everyone else stumbles out of the way.
A horn blares. The beast picks up speed, crashing through the booths. I flinch and shield my face as glass shatters around us.
In the distance, just past the wreckage, a train begins to depart.
BANG! BANG!
Shrapnel whistles past my ears.
One of the officers raises a golden pipe, thin blue smoke curling from its tip. He drops a metal ball into the barrel and takes aim again.
The back of the train grows closer—almost there.
BANG!
My heart leaps as I squeeze my eyes shut.
The beast lunges forward, and my head whips back from the force. Its hand catches a railing on the rear of the train. Wind blasts against my face, tearing at my clothes.
The train doesn't clatter like it should—it glides, hovering just above the rails. The tracks dip into a steep, pitch-black tunnel. We pick up speed.
Darkness swallows us whole.
But then—light. A soft glow appears at the end of the tunnel, growing brighter until we shoot out like a bullet from a barrel.
We're now high above the ground, racing along a narrow bridge that stretches across an endless forest. Behind us, a jagged mountain looms, the tunnel carved into its base like a wound.
Circumstances couldn't get much worse.
Wherever this train stops next, there is a chance we'll be greeted by more uniforms—more people with golden pipes and bad intentions. But it's not like we can jump. Even if we survived the fall and managed to land in the trees, something out there would finish us off.
The beast stands silently beside me, still gripping the rail. Its posture steady. Its hand—unexpectedly human—clutches the pole with quiet strength. The skin is a soft caramel, smooth and warm-looking beneath the shadow of its cloak.
A flash of water glimmers beneath us.
Without warning, the beast throws me.
"Gahh!"
My arms shoot forward, grasping at nothing. My heart thrashes in my chest as I squeeze my eyes shut.
Is this really how it ends?
Wind tears past my face, screaming louder than my thoughts as I plummet.
Then—
A soft hand slips into mine.
My eyes open slowly.
Messy black hair streams behind her like a flag in the wind. A girl's face meets mine—caramel skin, black freckles scattered across her cheeks like stars. Calm. Unshaken.
In her other hand, she clutches the giant fur cloak.
She lifts a corner of it toward me, motioning for me to grab on. I take it with one hand, then the other.
She lets go of my hand.
We separate, but the cloak fills with air, jerking my arms upward. I dangle awkwardly, barely hanging on.
Across from me, she grips the opposite side with ease, her body poised and balanced midair.
Ink-black tattoos trace constellations across her skin, wrapping over her arms and collarbone like a map written in the sky.
Below us: a lake.
Thanks to this mighty mouse's cloak, we might not die—but that water's still coming in way too damn fast. The lake's shaped like a giant peanut, rimmed by trees scattered across the ground like sprinkles on a cake.
I brace for impact.
Hitting the water sends a jolt through every bone in my body. I plunge deep into the ice cold water, losing my grip on the cloak. My limbs go slack. Vision fades. The world softens.
Was the impact too much?
A hand wraps tight around my wrist, tugging me upward.
Ah... it's that mouse again...
My sight starts to come back. I kick weakly, then stronger, shoving water out of my way. The freckled girl swims beside me, her grip firm, pulling me closer to the surface.
The mouse girl has a calm look on her face, swimming with ease despite hauling both me and her cloak. Her feet kick like propellers as we rise through the water.
She pulls me up like I weigh nothing. I break the surface, coughing lake water from my lungs. She helps me the rest of the way to shore.
I collapse onto my side, still choking up what feels like half the lake.
Miss Mighty Mouse stands over me, staring like I'm some kind of zoo animal.
The rocky shore digs into my palms like tiny needles as I slowly push myself upright.
The girl takes a step back.
"Oh… you're scared of me?" I bark a laugh. "That's funny! Really funny!"
I stand to my feet, completely soaked from head to toe. Water drips from my clothes like I'm a walking, talking lawn sprinkler.
Miss Mighty Mouse tilts her head in confusion.
Her eyes are a deep violet—so dark they're nearly black, just like her hair. Unusual. Kind of mesmerizing.
It's a little awkward seeing her without the cloak.
She turns away and walks to a nearby tree, hanging the heavy fur cloak over a branch.
Not a bad idea. The breeze is sharp as ice, and the sun's starting to dip. I peel off my shirt, sweats, and soaked club jacket, leaving on my soggy underwear. Going full commando? Yeah, that's a little too much for my taste.
As I hang up my pants, there's an unusual weight to them.
Oh shit—my phone.
I dig through my pocket and pull it out. Not cracked, surprisingly, but turning it on right now would be a disaster. I fish out my wallet and club keys from the other pocket.
"You see that? I'm fucked!"
I turn around, holding up the dripping phone like it's the holly grail.
Miss Mighty Mouse glances up—briefly—but keeps scurrying around like a naked baboon collecting sticks, as if it's just another Tuesday.
What a weirdo.
A log sits near the lake's edge.
Eh. Wouldn't hurt to take a seat, I guess.
The moment I sit, she shoots me the nastiest look, dropping her bundle of sticks into a little pile with the attitude of a grumpy cat.
"What do you want? You want me to help?" I get up, placing my phone, wallet, and keys on the log. But before I can say another word, she throws herself into the lake.
Seconds later, her messy black hair pops up from the water. She's holding a small fish in each hand.
The sunset fades between the mountains.
Miss Mighty Mouse sits beside me, laying her catch on a nearby rock. She picks up a stick and begins rubbing its point into a pile of bramble. Her hands become a blur, moving back and forth between her palms. Smoke rises. A small flame appears. Carefully, she builds the fire, layering it with the sticks she gathered.
She grabs one fish and skewers it through the mouth, doing the same with the other. Then, holding a fish stick in each hand, she gets to her feet and starts stomping in rhythm around the fire.
Maybe it's some kind of tribal dance?
As she moves, I notice a necklace swinging from her neck—leather, by the looks of it, with a small, empty vial dangling at the end.
As the sun disappears behind the horizon, her eyes and the tattoos etched across her skin begin to glow—a soft, faint purple.
Watching her is... hypnotic.
Every movement feels deliberate. Like it means something.
She stops her dance and sits beside me once again. The fire crackles softly, and somehow, the warmth reminds me of home.
Maybe I can get through this.