Training Montage

The mirror didn't lie. At least, I didn't think it did.

But I kept staring, wondering if somehow I'd been swapped with a hotter version of myself during the night. I stood there in my white towel, damp hair sticking to my neck, skin still warm from the steamy post-shower bliss. My reflection blinked when I did, sighed when I did… but she didn't look like the woman who'd been giving recycled, soul-draining tours around the Marimus Faction just a week ago.

Caramel brown hair was still mine. It curled slightly at the tips, falling just shy of my shoulders. That wasn't new. The radiant blue eyes? Maybe a bit brighter. Then there was the tan, an unholy kiss of sun damage courtesy of five years working in Singapore, where the only thing hotter than the gossip was the temperature. But this?

This body?

Where the hell did it come from?

I tilted my head, adjusting the towel and squinting at my chest. I could've sworn these weren't this… substantial before. I mean, I had always had a decent figure, but this was full-on heroine hourglass silhouette. My thighs looked sculpted. My waist was tighter. My whole figure had this subtle, graceful curve that hadn't been there last week. Either I'd been secretly photoshopped in real life, or...

"Awakening. You sneaky little shapeshifter."

It wasn't unheard of. Flux awakenings could reconstruct bodies. Some people got leaner. Others more agile. A few got taller. I just… got hotter? That sounded like a joke.

I stared at myself another moment.

"Mira would've hated this."

The memory of her hit like a slow punch. She would always joke about how if I ever got hotter than her, she would throw herself into a volcano. She was petty like that. The kind that left post-it notes on your cereal box saying, "I took the last one. Sue me."

But I didn't cry. I didn't break down. I just… stood there grieving in silence. Not in weakness, just… acknowledgment. The best thing I could do for her was keep going. And maybe make fun of myself on her behalf.

"Relax, Mira," I said out loud, smirking faintly at the mirror. "It's not like I asked for this. Apparently, when you awaken here, you get a free glow-up. Who knew experiencing death came with a beauty package?"

I got dressed. Phaser had apparently been hoarding clothes when the Second Thauma was happening. Said he used to loot them, mostly to give some to his sister, who had been obsessed with royalty-style outfits. But he didn't want to keep all that drama, so he gave me the casual leftovers.

And he called those casual?

They were borderline boutique. Think: black shirts that hung just right, white shorts that actually fit, and fabric that didn't itch or smell like the apocalypse. The long black shirt I picked out had this cool, minimalistic linework across the chest. Real subtle, like a whisper of style. And the shorts? Thank the stars they weren't trying to suffocate me. I flopped down on the sofa in the corner of the apartment, still towel-damp and vaguely offended by how comfortable this place was.

Me. On a soft couch. In a post-cataclysm world.

Alive.

I stared at the ceiling, the silence wrapping around me like a blanket. For once, it wasn't the silence of survival. It wasn't the emptiness of grief or the choking stillness before a mission. It was peace.

And it felt… unnatural.

I'd spent so long in chaos, in heatwaves and yelling tour groups and bureaucratic messes. I never thought I would know what quiet luxury felt like. Not rich luxury, just rest. Just breathing.

This black card that everyone kept side-eyeing me for? The one they whispered about in hushed tones, like it was a cheat code? Maybe it was favoritism. Maybe it was suspicious. But right now, it meant a warm apartment, food that didn't try to murder my intestines, and a closet full of aesthetic streetwear from the apocalypse fashion vault of Phaser himself.

And I wasn't complaining.

I closed my eyes and let the hum of the building sink into my bones. I had three days left. Then I might die.

But tonight? Tonight I was alive. Fully. Ridiculously. Maybe even sexily.

And somehow… that mattered.

--------

The second day was hell. The third was worse. The fourth? I was pretty sure my soul had signed a complaint to the universe.

Four days of non-stop, brutal, relentless training with Phaser. The kind that made you question your life decisions, your sanity, and the very concept of sleep. I'd thought I was strong before; mentally tough, emotionally numb enough to survive whatever the world threw at me. Turns out, Phaser wasn't the world.

He was worse.

From the moment I stepped into the training arena that first morning, it was full throttle. No greetings, no pleasantries, just a direct jab to my ribs as a wake-up call. That man trained like war was tomorrow and mercy was extinct. Kicks, punches, disarms, flips, I barely had time to blink before the next attack came. And gods forbid I tried to breathe wrong.

He didn't go easy. He didn't hold back like before. Well, he was still holding back a lot but he was still rough. He absolutely did not care if I broke something.

Because apparently, all 9+ Flux beings had advanced regeneration, fast healing, tissue repair, stamina boosts, it was all baked into our Flux signature, and Phaser abused that like it was a gift from the heavens.

"You heal fast," he'd say flatly, right after I collapsed from a spin-kick to the sternum.

"You can take more," he said, seconds before throwing me across the mat.

At first, I thought he was just a sadist. But by the second day, I realized he was training me the same way he trained himself. No shortcuts. No mollycoddling. He wanted results and he was getting them, even if it meant I bled for it.

What he didn't do, oddly enough, was teach me how to use the steel strings. Not even once.

And yet… I knew.

The moment I touched them, felt them coil around my fingers, I knew how to pull them tight, how to manipulate them through air and tension, how to move my hands like a conductor of violence. It wasn't guesswork. It was instinct and muscle memory from a mind that wasn't mine. I remembered what Levnard said about the serum, how rare it was.

Turns out, it was one of the rarest memory serums in all of the Third Eresnae. Forbidden in most factions, priceless, dangerous and reserved only for those being extremely favored.

Which of course explained the stares and the whispers. The rise in rumors were about me being Suprema Gamma's pet, or Phaser's secret lover, or a royal descendant in hiding. Something about my presence was rubbing people the wrong way.

I didn't care.

I was focused on livin and training to survive the Cursed Basin.

By the third day, the serum had settled in me like it had always belonged there. I moved and thought differently. I fought like someone who had done this for years. According to Phaser, I had mastered 97% of the combat system encoded in the memory.

Ninety-seven. He said it flatly, as if it was an average result but I caught the flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Respect? Maybe even… pride?

"Genius in adaptation," he muttered once, mostly to himself.

I wore that like armor.

On the last day, after a particularly savage set of sparring rounds where I managed to finally land a hit on his jaw (small victory, but a victory nonetheless), we both stood in the middle of the arena, breathless, sore, and covered in sweat and bruises.

Well, I was, not him. He's an absolute monster.

He crossed his arms and looked at me.

"You're going to meet Shannon this evening for the Cursed Basin briefing. She'll walk you through what we know. Which isn't much."

I nodded, still panting. My hands trembled slightly from the exhaustion. Every muscle in my body begged for a day off, and even though I'd healed rapidly between sessions, the fatigue was real. I was practically running on fumes and willpower.

But then… he smiled at me.

That bastard smiled.

It wasn't big. It wasn't dramatic. Just a small, honest curve of his lips but it was real. A proud, subtle kind of smile that lit up his whole face and I stood there like a stunned idiot, momentarily speechless.

Because... wow. He was handsome.

Not the rough, intimidating kind of handsome he normally radiated. This was warm. For a second, I forgot the bruises. I forgot the aching. I just… smiled back, eyes soft, body heavy but heart light. A grateful, involuntary smile bloomed across my face before I could stop it.

And it actually caught him off guard.

He blinked. His smile faded into something more unreadable. Then he cleared his throat, clearly flustered.

"Take a break. You've earned it."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off. I stood there for a while, watching his back as he disappeared into an elevator. The room was still buzzing with the echo of his words. I touched my cheek, felt the heat still lingering.

He had a very handsome face when he smiled. And I hated that I noticed.