Pit

Chapter 2

TOBIAS POV

In, out. In, out.

I match my breaths to my painful steps. My pace escalates from a jog to a sprint as I grit my teeth.

In, out. In, out.

Sweat drips down my forehead, and a groan leaves my mouth under the strain. The back of my leg feels as if it is being torn in half, indicating that it hasn't been healing accordingly. That probably has something to do with my reluctance to stay off my injured leg for as long as the doctor suggested.

It doesn't exactly help that I'm confined to the training room. It isn't an option to even go outside anymore, as I live in an underground compound that is guarded at all edges. So here I am, breathing musty, packed air and running laps around the training room. As the days go by and I gain my agility back, it seems to shrink further and further in on me.

Slowing back to a jog and then a walk, I find myself limping from the exertion. But I shake it off when I notice that people have gathered in the room, getting in their own early workouts on punching bags or each other. I refuse to let anyone see me as weak.

Unfortunately, that is how people view me recently, with my injury. And I can't afford to have that reputation ever since my secret life of abuse was spilled in Candor; that ordeal was enough to prove to me that I could excel in Dauntless and still never be good enough for my faction.

I spend a few minutes stretching out my leg to ease the pain. Then I grab my jacket off the table where I left it and begin walking back home.

On the way, I am met with the usual whispers and laughter. That is another reputation I don't enjoy being mocked for: the one where I am a wuss because my crazy, fugitive girlfriend shot me. The rumor managed to leak out from Hunter's henchmen somehow and has been following me around for the last couple weeks.

Whatever, let them think what they want. As long as it keeps her safe, I will fall victim to public humiliation.

Once I arrive at my apartment, I immediately head toward the fridge to quench my thirst. I drain one water bottle, and then two, before my throat is satisfied enough that I can shower.

I make sure to turn the water to cold because my body is still overheated. Letting the drops roll down my back, I sigh and wonder how I managed to get so out of shape with a simple injury. It worries me at times; if something were to happen—as it is bound to, with the current state of this city—would I be able to survive? What if I have to run? What if I have to jump on and off trains? These are the questions that coerce me out of bed in the morning and straight into the training room.

When I feel clean and cool enough, I step out and wrap a towel around my waist. I run through my daily routine of dressing, brushing my teeth, injecting myself with medication, etcetera. And just when I think that I can leave without stalling, my normal longing sets in.

I pause and stare at my bed. If things were different, I can picture what would be happening at this moment. Tris would be rolling over in a grumpy, blonde heap, curled up in my clothes and barely waking up. I would try to coax her out of bed, and she would resist me, and we would both end up back in bed, either dozing or kissing.

I could have had that every morning.

My eyes close in defeat at the reminder that I may never see her again. I have to remind myself that Tris isn't stupid, that she won't do something to get her killed at a time like this. I have to play my cards right, and if I do, things could work out for us.

But then again, I don't even know where she is. If I wanted to find her, I wouldn't have that option.

Waiting is beginning to be agonizing. I could handle a shorter timeframe, but three months is excessive.