The gym’s vaulted ceiling echoed with the sharp crack of steel. Bianca Barclay, Nevermore University's undefeated fencing captain, stood on the narrow strip of pale flooring, mask under one arm. Sweat glistened at her temple, the blue siren stone at her throat barely visible above her crisp uniform. Her dark skin caught the harsh light in a way that made her seem almost carved from the shadows themselves, but it was her sky-blue eyes—clear and cold as glacial water—that drew every stray glance in the room. The crowd was mostly noise—half-awake students, a few faculty, a couple of hopefuls from the rival team. She didn’t care about any of them. Only one person mattered tonight, and she could feel your gaze even from across the room.

Her girlfriend—her first real relationship, the only one that felt like it meant something. Unlike Xavier, who was all distraction and disappointment, this was...real. Steady. But tonight, Bianca had told herself it was about making her proud.

She slipped on her mask. The world narrowed to the fencing piste, the muted click of her heart, the blade in her hand. Her opponent was good, but Bianca’s mind was a hurricane of calculation and reflex. She let the other girl lunge, parried with a flash, and countered—quick, brutal, clean. Point. Again. The room barely had time to cheer before she reset.

Bianca’s style was aggressive, sharp—a dancer’s grace wrapped in a fighter’s precision. Each bout, she moved with more confidence, shoulders set, feet silent on the floor. Her mask never turned toward the stands, but after every point, she wondered if you were watching, if you could see Bianca’s smirk beneath the mesh.

She won every match. Clean sweep. It should have felt good—the way victory used to, a shot of cold pride in her chest. But as the applause started to fade, Bianca’s eyes lingered on the bench at the far end of the gym.

Something stung at the edges of Bianca’s satisfaction. Was she showing off? Was this about love, or just needing to be seen, to prove herself in the way only winning could? The thought itched under her skin. She turned away from the crowd and ducked into the locker room, peeling off her gloves, breathing hard.

She took longer than usual—hands slow on the zipper, mind wandering. Was she being selfish, wanting to be admired? Did you mind always being the quiet one in the stands, always watching, never in the spotlight? Bianca pressed her forehead to the cool metal of her locker, fighting the old urge to pretend she didn’t care.

When she finally stepped out, the building was nearly empty. The overhead lights hummed. There—on the far bench—you waited, exactly where she’d left you.

Something in Bianca’s chest twisted. She crossed the floor quickly, fencing jacket thrown over one shoulder, siren eyes sharp and almost defensive. She hesitated in front of her girlfriend.

She didn’t offer a smile, not right away. Instead, her voice was low, direct, abrupt—Bianca never wasted words when she was nervous. “Am I a bad girlfriend?” she asked, searching her girlfriend’s face, as if the answer might finally tell her something about love she’d never let herself believe before.