Trial by Fire– Day One

The metal training room was a furnace—an unforgiving crucible of heat, breath, and punishment. The echo of pounding footsteps bounced off the walls, accompanied by ragged gasps and the slap of sweat-drenched skin against polished steel. Every inch of the space reeked of muscle fatigue and determination clashing with sheer spite.

Zina's lungs felt like they were filled with fire. Each breath scorched her throat, and her heart thundered like war drums in her ears. Her pink hair clung to her damp neck as she stumbled forward, legs screaming with each step.

"No one said anything about laps. What happened to warm-ups and yoga or some trust-fall icebreaker crap?" Zina thought bitterly. "I didn't sign up for bootcamp. I just wanted to not die someday, not collapse on day one."

"I swear, the flyer said something about 'basic training.' I thought that meant like, stretching, punching a dummy, and maybe doing some cool kicks. Not... this. Not 'run until your soul escapes your nostrils' level of effort. And definitely not 'get pinned by a six-foot-three tower of sarcasm and muscle' training."

Across the room, Hana was experiencing her own private hell.

"If he thinks I'm doing one more lap, I'm gonna fake my death and haunt this damn building," she thought, gasping like a fish out of water. "I was promised skills. Maybe some light sparring. Not cardio hell in a steel box with zero Wi-Fi."

"Ten more laps," Malik's voice boomed, smooth and cruel. Calm as winter. Sharp as shrapnel.

Zina nearly face-planted. "You're joking—"

"Do I look like I joke?" he asked, not even looking up from where he stood, arms crossed over his black t-shirt, drenched in shadow and silence.

"Tell my therapist I tried," Hana groaned, collapsing to the floor like a tragic lead actress in a telenovela. "Also, bury me in glitter and thigh-highs. That's all I ask."

"Get up, Hana," Malik said flatly.

"I've seen the light, and her name is Death," Hana replied with a dramatic wheeze. "She's gorgeous, and she said I could rest."

"I'll give you rest," he muttered, stalking forward.

Before Zina could react, Malik was on Hana—grabbing her wrist, flipping her like a sack of flour, pinning her to the mat with one fluid motion. She gasped, eyes wide as his knee pressed into her spine and twisted her arm back.

"Malik!" Zina shouted, already sprinting forward.

"She hesitated," Malik said coldly. "Your enemies won't."

He let Hana go, and she rolled away like a kicked kitten. "You absolute—ow—demon! That arm's insured!"

Malik turned toward Zina. His golden eyes burned under the overhead light. "You're next."

And she was.

He drilled them mercilessly. Agility drills. Push-ups. Mountain climbers. Chokehold reversals. Chokehold push-ups that left her shaking and cursing every god she'd ever heard of. Zina's body moved like it was trapped in molasses, her limbs heavy, her reflexes slower than she liked to admit. Still, she pushed. Gritted her teeth. Matched his ferocity with stubborn fire.

They hit the mat again. This time, he straddled her waist and pressed her wrists down with ease, sweat gleaming across his sculpted forearms. She writhed, trying to buck him off, her thighs tightening around his hips.

"I did NOT sign up for this. What is this? Greco-Roman flirtation? Is this legal? Is this sexual harassment if I like it?!"

"Eyes on mine," he commanded. "Don't look away when you're vulnerable."

"I'd rather look away when your knee is halfway to my spleen."

"Then you'll lose every time."

His grip on her wrists tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say, I'm stronger. Get used to it.

Their breaths mingled.

"Still distracted?" he asked, voice lower now.

She glared. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Doing what?"

She shoved up, trying to twist out of his hold. He allowed her to almost slip free before catching her mid-motion, his arm sliding under hers, locking her into another hold.

The move was intimate. Too intimate.

Her face was flush against his chest, his heartbeat a steady thump against her ear. His scent was a mix of sweat, spice, and some kind of clean heat.

"You're fighting sloppy," he murmured near her temple.

"You're talking sloppy," she shot back. "Or is this your version of dirty talk?"

He laughed—not loudly, but enough that she felt it reverberate through her body.

Water break came like a blessing from the gods. Zina all but collapsed against the wall, her water bottle pressed against her forehead. Hana sat crumpled nearby, looking like roadkill in eyeliner.

"Tell me why his sweat smells better than mine," Hana muttered. "Is that a gene thing? Is he engineered?"

"Maybe it's the scent of suffering," Zina groaned. "He bathes in our tears."

"I knew I should've picked fencing or, like, sorcery. Something elegant. Not death by thighs."

"Back on the mat," Malik barked.

"Damn it," both girls muttered in unison.

Next came chokeholds and ground defense. Malik demonstrated with brutal efficiency—locking Zina's arm, twisting her to the ground.

"Break my arm and I'm taking your kneecaps," she gasped.

"You're lucky I'm being gentle."

"This is gentle?!"

He pinned her again, body pressed to hers, his hands forcing her to submit. Their eyes locked.

"This is fine," she thought. "Normal. Just training. Not like I'm aware of every place his body is touching mine or anything."

"You're overheating," he said.

"I wonder why, Captain Obvious."

"You want me to back off?"

"...Did I say that?"

He smirked.

By nightfall, both girls were wrecked. Zina collapsed onto the mattress in their shared quarters, every limb aching, her core sore, her thighs twitching. Even blinking felt like a laborious task.

She was half-asleep when she heard the door creak.

"I can't move," she groaned. "If you're here to tell me we're doing burpees at dawn, just end me now."

Malik's low chuckle rumbled in the darkness. "Relax. I come in peace."

She turned her head lazily. "You? Peaceful? Please. The only thing peaceful about you is the silence after you leave a room."

He crouched beside the bed, large hands reaching out. Without a word, he began massaging her calves—strong fingers pressing deep into the cramped muscles with precise pressure.

Zina's breath hitched. "M-Malik…"

"I told you it would hurt," he murmured, voice gentler than it had been all day. "You pushed yourself."

"I had a sadistic drill sergeant breathing down my neck," she mumbled.

"You survived," he said with the ghost of a smile.

She bit back a moan as his thumbs worked a tight knot in her thighs. "Gods, that hurts—"

"But it helps." He moved higher, tracing the length of her thigh. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin between her hips, and her breath caught again—this time from something far less painful.

She shifted, glancing down at him. "...You're being suspiciously sweet."

"Would you rather I choke you again?" he teased.

She gave him a look. "Okay don't say it like that."

He smirked but said nothing. His fingers dipped closer, brushing the edge of her shorts, thumbs kneading the aching muscle just behind her knee. Zina squirmed, heat flaring across her body.

Her voice was soft. "Today was brutal."

"You'll need it," he said, slower now, his gaze meeting hers. "You think this world is cruel on the surface? You haven't seen what's below it."

Her throat tightened. "I know. I just… didn't think it'd be this soon."

He paused, then pushed up onto the bed, crawling over her slowly. The air between them changed, charged with heat and silence. One of his hands slipped behind her neck, cradling her.

"I can't protect you forever," he murmured, eyes locked to hers. "But I'll give you everything you need to survive—whether I'm here or not."

Her eyes glistened. "Don't say it like that."

"It's truth, Soda Pop. You need to be ready."

"Don't call me that while you're looking at me like that."

He chuckled—low, deep. "Like what?"

"Like you're about to do something that's going to ruin me."

"Oh, baby," he whispered, his lips brushing hers. "Ruin is my specialty."

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down.

The kiss was slow, hot, and aching. She melted into it, her sore body curling into his warmth as his mouth devoured her softly, thoroughly. His hands roamed, memorizing the shape of her waist, the curve of her back, stopping just before going too far—like he wanted more, but not tonight.

Eventually, he broke the kiss, forehead resting against hers.

"I'm not gonna sleep unless I hold you," he muttered, already shifting them beneath the covers.

Zina whispered, "You better not start training me in your sleep."

He chuckled, arms wrapping around her waist tightly. "Only if you beg for it."

She jabbed his side, and he growled playfully.

But soon, the tension melted. His breath evened. His grip on her never loosened. And just before sleep took her, she whispered into the hollow of his throat:

"Don't disappear, Malik. Not yet."

He didn't answer.

But he held her tighter.