𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟏 | 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐌𝐄

𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 floor of the ring as blackness seeps over the back of my eyes.

I grunt and roll to my side, spitting out my purple mouthguard as I try to collect myself on the soft mats supporting my body. I can feel a bruise beginning to ring its way around my orbital bone as I peel myself off the floor and rub the back of my head.

Pieces of my imagination come soaring to the front of my mind, engulfing me in a world of memories that haven't taken place. I lift my hands and investigate the cracks in my knuckles—the small driblets of blood that have started to crust over, and I begin to wonder if the blood there was the same kind that had stained that imagery—if it had been my blood along the floor.

"What are you thinking about?"

I tear my eyes away from my gloved hands and clench my fists, recalling where I was. I push off the mats and snag my mouthguard. Standing at six feet even, showcasing a train of jet-black hair and dark black eyes, Aemon taunts me, circling me. His fists are still in position—his legs crossing at the ankle with each step.

"I'm not thinking about anything," I say defiantly.

"Must be important," he ignores her, "You've never been so off-balanced in the ring before. Don't tell me you have a new boyfriend, and the flashbacks are getting to you."

I feel my cheeks ignite, "I don't do boyfriends."

"Tell that to your face," Aemon muses.

I huff under my breath, stretching my fingerless gloves tight enough that when I flex my hand, it hurts. I get into position, leveling my hands at my head and waist, protecting the two most vital parts of my body. My brother loves to taunt me about my disease—loves to nitpick and make small jokes about the fact that I get red easily or that my eyes are so opaque and blue, it is like the clouds were made in my name.

I was born an Albino, and it would be a dream come true if I could go one day without being made fun of for something I can't control.

It doesn't help that both of my brothers and my father were blatant opposites—each of them with jet-black hair and dark, hawk-like eyes that could devour an enemy cold.

"We're not here for you to make fun of me."

"We're not here for you to daydream, either," he counters.

"I wasn't daydreaming," I sneer, "I just had this random flashback to this creepy-ass dream and it took me out of the ring for a moment, but I'm back now. So, shut the hell up and try to hit me, or I can go find someone else to help me train."

"You wouldn't dream of it, sister."

Aemon lunges at me, giving me half a second to react before his fully-gloved fist is directly under my chin, upper-cutting me swiftly. Blood seeps over my tongue as I bite down on it, too lost in my words to realize that my brother is not a softie.