Bloodlines and Bullets

ten

I groan, feeling the weight of the morning's exertion catching up to me. "Ugh, I can't. I need my bed."

He chuckles again, clearly amused by my predicament. "It's almost lunchtime; you'll survive until then," he reassures me.

The next part of the training is even more grueling. We do a mix of strength exercises and drills that seem designed to push every muscle in my body to its limit. He stays nearby, offering me pointers and encouragement, which I appreciate more than I can express.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't keep up with the pace of the others. They move with a fluidity and ease that I can't muster, their bodies conditioned to this brutal regimen.

The trainer doesn't miss a beat, his eyes narrowing as he watches me struggle. He's relentless, barking out orders and pushing me to go beyond what I think I can handle. Every time I falter, he's there, not with support, but with a demand for more, as if trying to break me down.

By the time the session finally ends, I'm drenched in sweat, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my skin. My muscles ache with every movement, and I feel like I could collapse on the spot. What the hell did I get myself into? I think, despair washing over me. This is worse than being at Luciano's mercy; at least there, I knew what to expect.

George walks over, giving me a friendly pat on the back. "You did great for your first day," he says, his tone genuine.

I manage a weak smile, grateful for his kindness. "Thanks, but I feel like I just survived a war zone."

He laughs, nodding. "Yeah, it's rough. But you'll get used to it. Besides, the first day is always the worst."

I glance at the clock on the far wall. It's 12:30 p.m., and my stomach growls in protest. "When's lunch?" I ask, the thought of food giving me a flicker of hope.

"Lunch is at 1 p.m.," he replies. "But first, how about a shower? You look like you could use it."

"Desperately," I admit, feeling the grime and sweat clinging to me. "But I have no idea how to get back to my room."

He smiles, a soft, reassuring curve of his lips. "I'll walk you to the dormitories. It's not too far."

Just as we start walking, I hear a familiar voice calling my name. "Thalia!" Turning, I see Rosalia waving at me, her expression a mix of concern and impatience.

"There's my ride," I say to George with a rueful smile. "I'll see you at lunch? Save me a seat?"

"Of course," he replies, a friendly glint in his eyes. "And hey, don't worry. It gets easier."

I nod, though I'm not entirely convinced. As I walk toward Rosalia, I can't help but feel a pang of uncertainty. Am I supposed to eat lunch with the others, or am I meant to stay hidden away in my room? Everything here is a question mark, and I'm fumbling for the answers.

She takes one look at me and clucks her tongue, a motherly gesture that tugs at something deep inside me.

"Hey, Rosalia, how's your day been?"

But she remains silent, her expression unreadable as she walks briskly ahead. It's clear she's still upset with me for attempting to run away this morning.

Feeling a pang of guilt, I glance down at the floor, regretting my actions.

Why? You owe her nothing!

We soon reach my room, and she stands silently by the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Thanks for walking me back," I say awkwardly, trying to break the silence.