MAGNETIC

Myst sat in the dim corner of the sleeping quarters, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.

Her fingers dug into her sleeves, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing holding her together. She could still feel the weight of their words—their anger, their disappointment.

Razor's voice had been steady but sharp, cutting through her like a blade. Blaze's frustration had radiated off him in heated glares. Nyx's quiet reprimand had been laced with something worse than anger—hurt.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't help. The images still flashed behind her eyelids—

The soldier's hand closing around her throat. The mechanical grip, unrelenting. The moment she realized she was too weak. The jolt of energy that saved her.

Myst sucked in a sharp breath and forced herself to loosen her grip. Her hands were trembling.

The fight was over. They had made it out alive. So why did it feel like she was still suffocating?

Her body ached—a dull, throbbing reminder of how reckless she had been. Cipher had patched her up, but the bruises ran deeper than skin. Every breath sent a sharp pang through her ribs, her muscles torn between exhaustion and tension.

But the worst pain wasn't physical.

She knew she should have listened. She knew it had been reckless. But standing on the sidelines? Watching them fight without her? She couldn't do it. Not when she could have helped. Not when she could have made a difference.

Except she hadn't. Not in the way she wanted.

Myst let her forehead drop against her knees, exhaling shakily. She was trying so damn hard not to cry. But her chest was too tight, her throat burning with all the words she hadn't been able to say.

She bit down on her lip, hard, as if the sting would force the emotions back down. But it didn't work. Her shoulders shook, the weight of everything crashing over her in waves. She gasped, breath hitching—

Then the first tear slipped down her cheek.

Myst quickly wiped it away. Then another. And another.

She couldn't sit here.

The night wouldn't let her sleep.

Her feet carried her to the Bastion's training room, dimly lit and silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. The space felt empty, but that was what she needed.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her muscles burning with every movement. She pushed herself harder, fists slamming against the worn-out punching bag, each hit fueled by frustration and anger.

Another punch. Harder. And another.

She didn't hear him enter, but she felt the shift in the air—the subtle awareness prickling at her skin before Flux's voice broke the silence.

"You're not hitting right."

Myst froze mid-strike, breath catching. Slowly, she turned.

Flux leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like he'd forgotten it was there. His sharp eyes flickered over her, unreadable.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Not in the mood for a lecture."

Flux pushed off the wall, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe. "Then don't think of it as one."

Before she could react, he was behind her.

Close. Too close.

His presence was warm, solid, overwhelming. He reached for her wrist, guiding her arm into position. His touch was firm, steady—impossible to ignore.

"You're wasting energy." His voice was low, close to her ear. "Your stance is off. You keep throwing your weight too far forward."

Myst swallowed hard, her pulse hammering as he moved in closer. His hand settled at her waist, adjusting her posture. The heat of his skin burned through the fabric of her shirt, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Try again," he murmured.

She obeyed, throwing a punch the way he showed her. It landed with more precision, more force. He nodded approvingly but didn't step back. If anything, he lingered, his hand still at her waist, the scent of him—smoke, metal, something unmistakably him—spiraling around her.

It wasn't until she turned her head slightly that she realized just how close they were. A breath away. If she moved even a fraction forward—

Flux's fingers flexed at her side, like he felt it too. His gaze flickered to her lips, lingering a second too long.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, Flux exhaled sharply and stepped back, releasing her like she burned him. The cool air rushed between them, making her feel strangely cold in his absence.

He didn't say anything at first. Just rolled his shoulders and let out a quiet, almost amused scoff. "Focus. You're too distracted."

Myst's breath came uneven as she turned back to the punching bag, gripping the fabric tightly.

She didn't argue. Because he was right. Again.