Time is up, Rabbit

Marked Rabbit

Outside, the air was heavy — that strange, metallic stillness that follows rain. Freen stopped beside her bike, the helmet dangling from her fingers, her reflection fractured in the wet pavement — a dozen versions of her, none of them whole.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her hand went automatically to her wrist — to the faint outline of the device beneath her skin.
One press.
Nothing.
Another.
Still nothing.

"Come on," she whispered, a shaky laugh breaking out of her throat. "Now's not the time to play dead."

The screen stayed black. Cold. Empty. Her stomach turned. She pressed harder — once, twice, again — until her fingers ached. But it didn't matter. The light was gone.

"Perfect," she muttered, dropping her arm, eyes stinging. "Just perfect."

She sat down on the curb, the damp seeping through her jeans, and let her head fall back against the metal of the bike. For a moment, the silence was unbearable.

Usually, when things hurt, she had a way out — a jump, a reset, a second chance. But now? Now she was stuck in the past, and the future had gone dark. No rewinds. No exits. Just this. And she was stuck here — with her feelings. With herself.

Her thoughts started circling, fast, sharp, relentless.

She'd fallen for her enemy.

Her enemy.

Not some nameless target. Not a stranger she could walk away from. But Becky — the woman she was supposed to stop. The woman who'd one day tear down everything Freen had built.

And worse — she'd lost control. She'd let jealousy take over. Over a man who wasn't even a threat yet.

She could still see Becky's face when she said it — you're not my girlfriend. The words hadn't just stung. They'd landed like a verdict.

She hated that she cared. Hated that the words still echoed. Hated that she'd wanted Becky to mean the opposite.

Freen clenched her fists. She wasn't used to this — to being the one who cared more. No one had ever made her fight this hard to be chosen. Usually, people just... came to her. Fell into her gravity.

But Becky — Becky made her earn every glance, every smile, every inch. And Freen hated how much she wanted to.

She hated the ache in her chest.
She hated the silence of the device.
She hated the rain for stopping, the world for feeling too still, and herself most of all — for caring this much.

For once, she couldn't run. Couldn't disappear. The future had stopped answering her, and the present refused to let her breathe.

So she sat there, jaw tight, pretending she was fine — because if she didn't, if she let even one crack show, she was afraid she'd shatter completely.

Students passed by her in waves — laughter, phones, chatter — and every now and then, someone would slow down to glance at her. It wasn't just the bike that caught attention. It was her. The way she sat there, too still, too sharp, like she belonged in motion but chose to stay.

One of the girls from a nearby bench smiled at her — bold, curious. Freen smiled back automatically.

It was muscle memory. A reflex. A mask she'd worn so long it fit perfectly, even when her heart was breaking underneath.

Another guy approached, asking something about the bike, and Freen slipped into the conversation like it was second nature — light, teasing, perfectly in control. The attention felt like static, a cheap distraction, but it was better than thinking.