Twisted Fate || Loki Odinson

13.

My back slams against the cold and damp wall, the scratchy voice crackling through the intercom, eerie in the dimly lit room. "Protect yourself."

Blood trickles down my forehead from a gash, blurring my vision with a sting of salt. The metallic tang fills my mouth, my heart racing.

"How the hell am I supposed to protect myself?" I retort, voice strained, each syllable echoing off the concrete. 

"Fight."

"He has a fucking sword!" I scream, my voice cracking with a raw mix of terror and frustration. The armored figure advances, his blade catching reflections of distant light.

Adrenaline surges through me, sharpening my senses. "Shit." With desperate agility, I slide out of his path just in time, the air whooshing where his sword slashes through.

I stumble backward, my heart thundering against my ribs and my mind racing faster than my feet. The room offers no sanctuary, its featureless walls closing in as the intercom crackles with static.

The figure advances again, relentless in his pursuit, his armored form moving with an eerie grace. His sword gleams malevolently as it slices through the air with deadly precision.

"Stop!" I shout my voice a desperate plea echoing into the indifferent chamber. "Why are you doing this?"

No answer comes except the metallic clang of his sword against the unforgiving concrete floor. Desperation fuels my next move-- I launch forward, aiming a futile kick at his knee. He stumbles slightly, but his persistence remains unshaken, eyes fixed on me with an unsettling intensity.

Panic rises within me. There's no way out, no corner of the room that doesn't echo with the threat of his blade. I duck and dodge, each movement fueled by instinct and the primal urge to survive.

"Who are you?" I demand, tone cracking with terror, the words torn from my throat in a desperate attempt to understand the madness unfolding around me.

The armored figure advances, silent and implacable, his intentions masked behind unyielding armor. His sword flashes again, grazing my arm with a searing pain that brings tears to my eyes, mingling with sweat and blood.

"Please," I plead, my back pressed against the concrete wall. 

The intercom crackles again, the voice cold. "Learn to protect yourself."

A sob escapes me, a raw expression of fear as the figure closes in, sword raised for the final, fatal blow. With a desperate lunge, I grab a nearby pipe, swinging it wildly. It connects with a metallic clang against his armor, buying me a fleeting moment of rest. 

I wake with a gasp, sheets twisted around me, still trembling from the phantom pain of the nightmare. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to regain my composure. 

I didn't take my meds. 

Slipping into a robe, I slip out of my room, mindful not to disturb Loki. The kitchen beckons and I retrieve the vodka from the cabinet before heading outside.

Outside, I pop the bottle open, its contents warming my throat as I stare into the moonlit, snow-laden landscape. 

What's wrong with me?

Behind me, the door creaks open. "Cassie?" Loki's voice is a gentle murmur filled with concern. "What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep," I mutter, taking another sip.

"Do you want some company?" His voice carries softly across the chill night air.

I scoff, bitterness lacing my tone. "I guess you've already forgotten what happened earlier."

He huffs softly, his expression a mix of contrition and concern. "Of course, I didn't forget." He settles down next to me, the porch bench creaking faintly under his weight. "I apologize for crossing any boundaries that I did."

"It's fine," I shrug, staring out into the moonlit landscape. "I just... Too many people have gotten hurt because of me. I can't let anyone else get hurt."

"And what about you? What if you get hurt?" His question is gentle but probing.

"It's my mess to handle. No one else's," I assert, shaking my head firmly.

His eyes hold a steady determination as he meets my gaze. "Actually, I believe it is my mess to handle. I'm the one who confronted them when you told me not to. Anything that happens to you because of that confrontation is my fault, not yours."

I exhale heavily, torn between frustration and gratitude at his persistence. "Maybe, but Miller's had it out for me since I moved to town."

"Why?" His curiosity is tinged with a hint of anger. 

"Because I've refused to go out with him for years. Because I don't let him intimidate me like he intimidates everyone else. Because I'm not afraid of him," I explain, bitterly.

He considers my words thoughtfully, leaning back, into the bench. "Men like him only thrive when people are scared of them. I'm not surprised he's targeting you."

"I can handle Miller," I insist, my grip tightening around the glass. "It's the consequences for everyone around me that I can't control."

"You don't have to face this alone, Cassie," he says quietly, his voice a soothing contrast to the turmoil inside me. "Let me help."

I turn to him, searching his face for any hint of insincerity, finding only earnest concern in his eyes. "Why do you care?"

His gaze softens, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Because you've managed to not only survive but thrive despite everything thrown your way. That resilience is worth protecting."

I meet his gaze, seeing the genuine concern and empathy in his eyes. For a brief moment, I consider his words, the possibility of leaning on someone else for support. But old habits die hard, and I'm not ready to relinquish control just yet.

"I appreciate your concern," I reply, offering a small and tired smile. "But I'm not ready to let go of my independence just yet."

He nods understandingly, respecting my boundaries. "I understand," he says softly. "But remember, I'm here if you ever need me."

"Thank you," I whisper gratefully, the weight on my chest easing slightly.