CODENAME: I Swore I'd Hate You

Yeah I'm alive - A.C

They say silence helps you think. 

Whoever said that has clearly never stood in a combat hall at five in the morning, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of metal and antiseptic.

Silence doesn't make me think. It makes me remember.

So I hit the bag harder.

The sound of my gloves colliding with reinforced sand feels cleaner than my thoughts—solid, rhythmic, something I can control. Every hit knocks loose something I don't want to name.

Don't think. Just move.
Don't remember. Just breathe.

The air is cold enough that each breath burns, sweat slicking down my spine. The mirror to my left catches flashes of me—a blur of dark hair, sharp lines, and the look Raven once called the unbreakable angel.

Unbreakable. Right...

The thing about breaking is... you don't hear it when it happens. You only notice when the pieces start cutting you from the inside.

A voice cuts through the quiet. "You done bruising the air yet?"

I turn, panting. Raven's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised. She's early forties, ageless in the way people get when they've seen too much. She wears a sleek black hoodie, her glasses reflecting the pale light. Her tone is casual, but her eyes track every twitch in my stance. And man, the lady's like a hawk. Nothing gets past her.

"Depends," I say, yanking off my gloves. "Was the air winning?"

"Barely." She tosses a towel my way. "Try aiming next time, Lils."

I grin, but it's tight. Raven's my trainer, my handler, my boss and apparently today she's also my mom. "You sound jealous."

"Jealous of a sixteen-year-old with chronic insomnia and a overprotective brothers?" she says, stepping closer. "Pass."

She's teasing, but I can feel her watching me—really watching me. That's the thing about Raven. She's not in the field anymore, but she still reads people like they're debrief files. And I know she sees me. Really sees me. It's useless trying to hide from her, because one way or the other I know I'll have to face that talk from her. The one where she asks me to stop and breathe. Which we seem to have everyday now.

The training hall door hisses open again.

Naomi strolls in first—small frame, messy curls, gum popping, wearing her usual too-bright hoodie that says Trust Me, I'm Trouble. Not gonna lie, the hoodie is actually right. She really is trouble.  

Everyone calls her Limes because she once dumped an entire basket of them over an instructor's head during her training days, the story spread like wildfire throughout the whole agency and the name stuck. And boy does she like it? See what I mean, she's for sure Trouble.  

"Morning, sunshine," she says. "Or whatever ungodly hour this is." 

Jessica's right behind her—tall, precise, always looking like she's mid–Mission Impossible. Her ponytail is a weapon. "She's been at it since three," she says, checking her wristband. "That's two hours of extra training without clearance. How in the hell are you up so early?"

"Didn't realize I needed a permission slip to stay alive," I say between pants as the heat really gets to me.

Cho appears last, balancing a tablet and a cup of coffee the size of her head. Her shirt says 'Don't Ask. Don't Tell. Don't Bother.'