The Return to the Silo

The train moved on, disappearing into the darkness. Theo and Ceres jumped off near the abandoned silo—the same one as before, between warehouses and tall weeds. Now the place was different: the rust seemed more alive, the air denser, as if the night had returned to collect something left behind there.

Theo entered first. The circular walls echoed the sound of his footsteps.

Candlelight flickered across the worn metal, reflecting memories.

Ceres looked around—she recognized every stain, every shadow.

—We came back? —she asked.

—Yes —Theo said, taking the candles out of his backpack. —The day kept the sound of your voice. I want to hear what the night does to it.

The fire cast dancing shadows. He placed two peaches on the cold floor, just as before.

Ceres smiled faintly.

—Peaches again?

—It's what we share when the world seems about to collapse —Theo replied, lighting the last candle.

She moved closer. Her footsteps echoed deeper than they had the first time. The silo's acoustics seemed different at night—deeper, more alive.

Theo sat on the floor, crossing his legs, and looked at her calmly.

—Sing again, Ceres.

—Wasn't what you heard last time enough?

—No. That was a memory. Today I want what remained.

The silence stretched out. The flames trembled, as if they were listening too.

Ceres took a deep breath. Her voice came out more restrained, more mature—less a girl, more a woman.

It was the same voice as Assum's, but now there was something of shadow and longing in it.

The sound filled the silo, climbing the walls and spilling down toward the floor.

Theo remained motionless, his gaze fixed on her—not on the voice, but on what was wounded inside it.

The song seemed to come from another time, from a life they had never lived.

When she finished, the echo took a long time to die.

Theo spoke, almost in a whisper:

—Night changes everything. Even your voice sounds more human... and more distant.

Ceres sat beside him.

—It's the same place, Theo. It's just darker.

—Sometimes that's the only thing that changes —he replied, with a smile that wasn't happiness.

Theo cut a peach in half and handed her a piece.

—The first time we came here, I wanted to escape. Now I just want to stay a little longer.

Ceres looked at him without answering. The sound of the burning candles mixed with the song still trapped in the walls.

Theo bit into the fruit, juice running down his fingers.

—Strange —he said. —Hatred still tastes like peaches.

Ceres laughed. The echo returned her laughter as if the silo remembered—and for a moment, everything seemed whole again.

The silence between them was as thick as the air inside the silo.

Theo looked at the melting candles, then at her.

—I'm joking —he said with a half-smile. —You sing well.

He paused.

—But you're as beautiful as this peach.

Ceres looked away. The gesture, the tone—it all reminded her of the stolen kiss, long ago, when he had taken the piece of fruit directly from her mouth.

Theo seemed to read her thoughts.

—I don't know... —he murmured, looking at the peach in his palm. —Peach will be my flavor now. The sweet taste of hatred.

He smiled crookedly.

—But without your flavor mixed in, it stops being hatred. It becomes an antidote.

Ceres remained silent. Theo was different.

Looser, brighter—and, at the same time, more dangerous.

It was as if he had crossed an invisible boundary.

—Sit here —he said.

She obeyed without knowing why. Theo ran his hand slowly along her back, a touch with no apparent intention. Just the warmth of being close.

—Why are you like this? —she asked. —Intense. You've always been, but now you seem... free.

Theo laughed. A strange laugh, almost sadistic.

—You're funny, Ceres. You know that? Too damn funny.

He looked at her.

—I wish I were as intense as your eyes.

Then he murmured ironically:

—But never mind. Here we're human. We don't have to question anything. There's no Mother Ceres, no school, no fight for leadership.

He raised his eyes toward the dark ceiling of the silo.

—A simulacrum of freedom. Cheap. Rusted.

He smiled.

—Not so different from the world outside.

Ceres stared at him.

—You wanted this once, you idiot.

—Yes, you asshole —Theo replied calmly, almost sweetly. —But I was a fool.

He paused for a long moment.

—I love our Mother.

Ceres pulled back slightly.

—Sometimes you scare me.

—Not as much as your angry eyes —he shot back, laughing. —You're such a feisty little thing.

—I don't need your stupid observations and compliments.

—You're right —he said, lowering his voice. —But I can feel you looking at me.

The silence returned, heavy. The candles crackled.

Theo raised his eyes, a serene and cruel glint settling in them.

—People with blue eyes are so deep...

He smiled.

—Deep like a swimming pool: beautiful, but full of chlorine. Hard to see the bottom.

Ceres held his gaze.

—What do you want, Theo?

—Just company —he replied, resting his head on her shoulder.

—To do nothing today.

The silo was different now. The walls, once warm and dusty beneath the sun, seemed to breathe in the cold moonlight. Ceres had been there before—she remembered the echo of her own voice when she sang, when the air was still clear and there was laughter in the broken windows. Now, the same melody seemed impossible.

Theo climbed first, as if he knew every corroded step. There was something different about him—a dangerous, almost luminous calm. Ceres watched him, unsure whether it was fear or fascination. The silence stretched between them, thick as suspended dust.

Then, in the distance, the sound of the train cut through the night—a metallic lament coming from the switching tracks. It was the same train, always at the same time, dragging iron and time along with it. Ceres and Theo remained still, listening until the sound disappeared.

—It'll pass again tomorrow —Theo said without looking at her.

—It always does —Ceres replied, almost in a whisper.

And the silence returned, but differently—as if the silo, the train, and the two of them now shared a secret.

The train came slowly, panting along the tracks like a tired animal. It was always the same time—the same moment when the world seemed to slow down just enough to let them pass. Theo climbed first, pulling Ceres by the hand. They settled on top of the car, sitting together, their eyes cutting through the night and wind.

—If we get there before the bell, we'll have time —she said, fixing her hair as the wind kept messing it up.

—There's time for everything —Theo replied, laughing.

Ceres noticed that he was different. There was a dangerous calm in him, a strange, almost childish happiness.

Suddenly, Theo stood up and began walking along the middle of the car.

—Get down from there, idiot! —she shouted.

—Relax, I'm just looking at the gap.

There was a space between two cars loaded with boxes. Theo pretended to slip and disappeared. Ceres's heart froze.

—THEO! —she screamed, getting to her feet.

Before she could think, a hand pulled her. She fell into the gap, her body colliding with his.

—Relax, I'm kidding! —he whispered, holding her tightly.

—You idiot! Stupid! Bastard! Moron!

—That's right —Theo laughed, pressing his forehead against hers. —Every word is a compliment.

They remained silent. The wind blew in gusts, the sound of the metal mixing with their breathing. Then the train whistle echoed over the school—the signal for curfew.

They both jumped down, rolling onto the edge of the tracks. Ceres went after him, punching his shoulders.

—I want to run this train right over you!

Theo laughed, trying to dodge.

—You're hurting me, Ceres!

But his laughter was sincere, free, almost sweet.

She tried to push him again—but he embraced her, their breathing and desperation matching. The kiss came in the middle of the movement, hot and inevitable.

When they pulled apart, Theo murmured, still smiling:

—My hatred is gone. See you later.

And he walked toward the school, leaving Ceres standing between the train, the wind, and the taste of iron in her mouth.

The next morning, the cafeteria was calm. Trays, footsteps, the metallic sounds of cutlery—everything followed the same routine as always.

Theo, however, seemed to savor breakfast as though it were a gift. There was something different about him—a serenity that was almost offensive.

Daime, sitting across from Ana, watched him.

—Wow, look at Theo's face... he looks like he's tasting coffee for the first time. What accidental peace. Almost enviable.

He paused and laughed.

—They kidnapped Theo, raised his taxes, I don't know. Look at that cynical face. The miserable bastard is happy.

Ana looked up from her plate.

—Fuck Theo. He's right.

—Right about what?

—Pretending he's free. In this school, that's the most freedom anyone gets to feel.

Daime let out a dry laugh.

—Such wisdom. Are you sure you're not an impostor? If you are, may the original forgive me, but you're hotter.

Ana quickly slapped the back of his head.

Daime just smiled and looked away. He saw Ceres crossing the room.

—Look over there... Blue Eyes.

Ceres walked alone, her face closed off. She sat at Theo's table without asking.

Theo raised his eyes, wearing the same cynical smile from the night before.

—You're not even going to say please before sitting with me?

—Do I need to? —she shot back coldly.

Theo kept his eyes on her, teasing.

—No, of course not... I'm just messing with you. But it'd be nice to hear you ask.

He let out a short laugh.

—Are you laughing at me?

—No, of course not. I'm laughing at you. I mean, with you. Relax.

He pointed at her plate.

—And what's that little cake?

—Want some?

—I do.

—What do you say?

—Please, I want a piece of your cake.

Ceres raised an eyebrow, surprised by the acidic tone. She cut off a piece and pushed it toward him.

Theo took it, looking into her eyes.

—But it'd be more fun if I stole it from you.

—Try.

—Tempting.

They both laughed briefly—and for a moment, the entire cafeteria seemed to dissolve around them.

Theo chewed the cake slowly, satisfied.

—Yeah... the taste of hatred is definitely sweet.

At the back of the cafeteria, away from the noise of trays and scattered conversations, Dark and Dru always occupied the same table. Between them lay a small pile of junk spread out like an improvised altar: twisted wires, shards of glass, rusted gears, a clock with no hands, and three brass coins polished until they reflected the white ceiling.

Dru spun one between her slender fingers, proud.

—I made their weights with paper from my green notebook —she said, unable to hide her smile. —Each coin has a piece of a word inside it. That's what gives it weight.

Dark watched in silence, his eyes almost lifeless, letting the light from the coins tremble across his pale skin.

—Words have no weight —he murmured, moving the pile of objects. —Only those who believe in them do.

—You talk as if nothing has any value —Dru replied, frowning.

—Does it? —he asked, returning her gaze with the calm of someone taking another person apart from the inside.

She laughed awkwardly, nervously, the sound escaping between her teeth like a sob.

—Sometimes I think you talk like that just to annoy me.

—Sometimes I talk like that just to hear you try to contradict me.

Dru stared at him for a moment. Dark's smile was a slash of shadow, a thin line that never reached his eyes.

—You're horrible —she whispered.

—And yet you keep sitting here every day —he replied naturally, as though merely stating a fact.

She looked away, fiddling with the coins.

—It's because you understand things. Unlike them.

Dark tilted his head slightly.

—I understand how things work. People... I just use them.

—Do you use me too?

Dark held her gaze, serene.

—I use everything that serves me. But don't take it personally, Dru. You're... useful in a beautiful way.

She remained silent for a while. The brass coins tinkled between her fingers, fragile as promises.

—Sometimes I think you want to be hated —she said, almost pityingly.

—No. I just want to see how far your love goes.

The sounds of the cafeteria disappeared around them. There were no voices, no cutlery, no laughter. Only the tick-tick of the broken clock Dark turned between his fingers, marking a time that no longer existed.

—You don't feel anything, do you? —Dru asked.

—I feel curiosity —he replied. —It's the closest I've ever come to feeling something real.

She took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the coins.

—And Theo? Do you still want to provoke him... through me?

Dark raised his face, his voice soft and weightless.

—I don't want anything. I observe. Theo is an open wound. You're the salt.

Dru lowered her head. There was anger, but fascination too.

—One day you'll be alone.

Dark laughed quietly.

—One day? I already am.

His laughter echoed against the metal of the cafeteria and faded, swallowed by the air. For a few seconds, the two of them seemed to exist outside everything—as if that corner were the entire world, made of brass, silence, and lies.

Dru remained seated for a while, her heart heavy and her face burning. She looked at the brass coin in her hands—the cold metal, the dull shine—as if she might find some meaning there. Dark had already left. He always did. And he always came back.

She knew he felt nothing. Or perhaps he did, but only in a way that served himself—as someone who lights a fire to keep warm and forgets that the other person burns too.

But she still sought him out. She wanted to feel alive. And Dark, with that tense gaze, that calm hiding something fierce, made her believe for a few moments that the world still noticed her.

She closed her eyes, remembering the day it all began—months ago, when Theo and Dark almost killed each other. The entire cafeteria had heard it.

Dark had spoken Tycho's name with contempt, laughing as if mocking the dead. He said things no one would dare repeat. Theo lunged at him like an unleashed animal, the table flying, plates crashing, the dull sound of blows.

And Dru... Dru acted before thinking.

She grabbed an iron pipe and struck Theo from behind. A hollow sound, a cry. He fell, dazed.

She remembered Theo's expression—the confusion, the pain, the disbelief. Then silence.

She saved Dark. And somehow, she became bound to him at that very moment.

Now he looked at her as one might look at a useful tool—a toy that breathes.

On the nights they met, Dark called her "his anesthesia," and she pretended not to understand.

She did what he asked. Accepted. Let him touch her. She wanted to forget the sound of the blow she had struck Theo, the weight of the iron in her hands, the metallic smell of blood.

Dark was tense, too intense. Sometimes she thought he took pleasure in watching her break—and perhaps that was true.

But there were moments when he looked at her almost humanly, as if testing his own ability to feel.

And it was for those brief seconds that she stayed.

Dru rested her forehead against the green notebook, the same one where she recorded the weight of the coins, the same one that sustained the illusion of value.

The smell of metal, old pages, and sweat blended together, forming a single memory.

She sighed and whispered to herself:

—I saved him... but who will save me from him?

The cafeteria was full, but the voices seemed distant, as if everything were happening inside an aquarium. Theo rose from Ceres's table, crossing the rows of benches with that calm stride that preceded violence.

Near the wall, an older student was pinning a new girl against the drinking fountain. Theo didn't think. He grabbed the boy by the collar and lifted him with ease, his face inches from his.

—If you touch her again —he said quietly, without needing to raise his voice— I'm going to punch your face until the bones in my hand come through the other side.

The boy stammered something no one understood. Theo dropped him, shoving him to the floor.

—Are we clear? —he added.

Silence spread quickly. Even the clatter of cutlery seemed to shrink.

Theo turned to the girl, who was still trembling.

—You okay? —he asked.

She nodded without a word.

—If that bastard bothers you again, call me.

Across the room, Dark began clapping slowly, ironically, his eyes fixed on Theo.

The sound echoed like an insult and a provocation.

Theo stared at him, the old exhaustion replaced by a new, sharpened coldness.

—Thought you were going to walk past without saying hello, Wall? —Dark taunted, his smile cutting.

Theo stopped. Turned slowly. A half-smile, almost gentle.

—You were right, Dark. We're almost alike.

He paused.

—Except I'm better-looking. And friendlier.

Dark let out a short, dry laugh.

—Good-looking until someone breaks your nose again.

And friendly? You don't even know what that word means.

Theo tilted his head, as if confessing a secret:

—It means I still let you walk around.

Some people would call that kindness.

I call it... boredom.

He turned his back and walked away. His boots echoed across the floor like hammer blows.

Dark stood still, tense, jaw clenched.

Something was different.

Something he still couldn't tell whether it was respect—or a warning.

The entire cafeteria held its breath.

Everyone expected a fight.

But nothing happened.

Daime spat out his milk.

—I'm shocked —he said, wiping his mouth. —They're getting along. That's... sexual chemistry, definitely.

Ana raised an eyebrow.

—You need to rethink your theories, Daime.

—No way —he shot back. —That's how it starts. Well-placed hatred, exchanged glances, a threatening touch... and boom, they're swapping bodily fluids.

Ana laughed despite herself.

They both leaned over the table, gossiping as if they had witnessed the beginning of a war—or a romance.

Dru watched from a distance, her fingers playing with one of the brass coins she had cast herself. The coin slowly spun across the table, making a faint metallic sound, almost like a nervous tick.

She didn't laugh. She didn't comment. She simply looked at him—Theo—with that same mixture of regret and wounded pride.

He still has this habit of saving others. As if he weren't the same person who destroys everything afterward.

Dark, sitting beside her, crossed his arms, satisfied with the chaos he had caused without moving a muscle. He touched her shoulder with his fingers, slowly, like someone taming a frightened animal.

—See? —he murmured, far too close to her ear. —Your hero speaks my language now.

Dru pushed his hand away, without much force.

—He speaks his own. You just think you're the translator.

Dark smiled, that smile without warmth.

—Then why are you still here if you don't believe me?

She hesitated. She wanted to answer. She didn't.

Dark knew. He knew she needed it—that intensity, the risk, the touch that made her feel alive. And he used that as a leash.

Across the room, Ceres pretended not to look.

She kept her chin raised, her eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of her. But every word, every movement from Theo, dug into her.

The cafeteria, the train, the kiss—it all returned like a muffled echo.

The anger, the fear, the almost-love.

She took a deep breath and stood, her steps measured, her voice cold:

—It's always like this. The dead have more peace than the living.

Daime's eyes widened.

—Uh-oh. Here comes the storm.

Ana nudged him.

—Shut up.

Ceres walked past Theo without looking at him.

The air seemed to harden between them, dense, magnetic.

Theo said nothing. He simply followed her with his eyes until she disappeared down the corridor.

Dark noticed.

—See that, Wall? —he said quietly, only to himself. —Your favorite war is still alive.

Dru heard him but pretended not to.

She knew Dark said more than it seemed—and less than he felt.

The cafeteria was still buzzing with whispers. The metallic sound of trays and the students' murmurs filled the air like an electrical field about to explode. Theo leaned against the wall, wearing the same calm expression everyone feared. The simple gesture—the way he chewed slowly, his body relaxed—seemed like a provocation. A political act.

Ceres watched him. She knew Theo did everything deliberately. The way he stared into nothing, the crooked smile, the rehearsed cynicism—it was all calculation. And that irritated her. Or worse: attracted her.

At the table in the back, Dark let out a dry laugh. Dru sat beside him, absentmindedly spinning a brass coin between her fingers. Dark leaned over and whispered something only she could hear:

—Want to see? He's going to look over here.

Dru answered without raising her eyes.

—He doesn't even notice you anymore, Dark.

Dark smiled, leaning back in his chair.

—Everyone notices what threatens them.

Theo looked. Briefly, quickly. But he looked. Dark raised his cup in the air, toasting nothing. Dru merely rolled her eyes.

Ceres suddenly stood. Her chair scraped across the floor with a sharp sound, drawing too much attention. She pretended not to notice, picked up her tray, and walked past Theo without looking at him. But he looked.

—Seriously? You're leaving without finishing breakfast? —he asked, his voice calm, almost teasing.

—Seriously? You're going to keep pretending you're a saint? —Ceres replied without stopping.

Theo smiled.

—Saints don't kiss.

Ceres stopped. Her breath caught for a moment.

—Nor do they steal peaches —he added, without taking his eyes off her.

She stared at him, eyes hard, body tense, and kept walking. From a distance, Daime nudged Ana with his elbow.

—The tension is so thick you could cut it with the knife from her cake —he murmured.

Ana sighed.

—It's only Tuesday and it already feels like the end of the world.

Dark watched Ceres leave. His gaze drifted lazily, but remained alert. Dru noticed.

—Does she scare you? —she asked.

Dark slowly turned his face.

—Fear? No. She's just another kind of poison. Theo drank first.

—And you? —Dru insisted.

Dark leaned his face far too close, his voice low, almost a whisper.

—Me? I just collect the bottles.

The bell echoed through the school, dragging its sound through the corridors. But no one immediately got up. The peace Theo carried was dangerous—and everyone, somehow, knew it would cost them dearly.

Ceres left the cafeteria without looking back. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and old rain, as if the building were sweating memories. She crossed the empty courtyard and went through the gate leading to the pools. She needed silence. Or to drown it.

The still water reflected the white, shapeless sky. Ceres took off her shoes, sat at the edge, and let her feet sink into the water. Small ripples spread around her ankles, as if the entire world were breathing around her.

"Saints don't kiss."

Theo's words returned like rust beneath her skin. He seemed looser, more alive, more dangerous. His freedom was a scandal. A sin.

Ceres sighed, staring at her distorted reflection.

—Idiot... —she murmured.

Across the school, Theo walked toward the Flagball field. The wind cut through the tall grass, lifting golden dust. The field was empty, save for a few forgotten flags fluttering.

He kicked one lightly and laughed to himself. The laugh echoed, hoarse and brief.

He remembered the night in the silo. Her voice. That absurd sensation of peace that hurt like a fever.

Theo crouched down, picked up the fallen flag, and spun it between his fingers.

—Yeah, Mother... —he said quietly, looking at the dull sky. —I think I understand your trick. Freedom is just another form of obedience.

Above, the space station blinked through the clouds—the constant reminder that nothing there was truly free.

Meanwhile, Ceres dove.

The water enveloped her like a womb. The sound of the outside world fell silent. She opened her eyes underwater and saw the light break into a thousand fragments above her.

Theo, on the field, raised the flag and planted it firmly into the ground, like an act of defiance.

Ceres surfaced, her hair plastered against her face, chest heaving.

Two bodies in different parts of the school, breathing the same air and the same silence.

It was as if, even apart, they were still inside the same breath—the breath of Mother Ceres.

That morning began with the sound of whistles and the smell of hot synthetic grass. The sky was still gray, but the field gleamed as if it were made of glass. The students lined up in groups, adjusting their bands and helmets.

Daime stretched his shoulders, talking to himself. Vanks complained about everything—the ball, the wind, the uniform. Cors yelled at anyone who breathed incorrectly. But something was different.

Theo and Dark were laughing.

Not much, but enough for the entire field to notice.

The game began. The plays flowed with almost absurd precision—Theo and Dark moved as if they shared the same reflex. Daime ran through the middle, received passes, dodged, and sent them back. It was as if they could read each other's minds.

—What's going on? —Kan asked, breathless after a clean play. —Since when do those two understand each other?

Daime simply laughed as he kept running.

—Miracle. Or boredom.

Dark threw a flag straight to Theo, who caught it in midair and spun with an almost mocking elegance.

Daime shouted:

—I saw that, Wall! You're playing way too pretty for someone who sleeps in armor!

Theo smiled, breathing deeply.

—And you're talking way too little for someone who thinks he's a comedian.

The whole team heard it and started laughing. Even Dark—who simply lowered his helmet and nodded.

For a few minutes, there was no rivalry, no politics, no provocations. Just the sound of footsteps on the field and the crack of the ball cutting through the air.

Daime, exhausted, sat on the edge and looked at the two in the center, shaking his head.

—I'm dreaming... or is hell on vacation?

Theo walked past him, sweating, his expression calm.

—Relax, Daime. When hell comes back, it'll let you know.

Daime laughed loudly.

—Ah, great! Send me a note first, okay?

The field seemed different. The old rivalry now sounded like a distant echo—and for the first time, everyone seemed to be playing simply for the pleasure of playing.

Ceres watched from a distance, leaning against the metal fence surrounding the field. She had left swim practice to understand what was happening there. Theo was different—faster, more confident, even the white streak in his hair had been carefully touched up. He seemed like someone else.

She followed him with her eyes as he ran, dodged, and laughed. That Theo was no longer the same restless, disorganized boy she knew.

"He's evolved," she thought, feeling something tighten in her chest.

And in that moment, she realized she needed to evolve too—not to catch up with him, but to remain worthy of the same world in which he was beginning to shine.

Theo quickly removed his helmet, his hair still damp with sweat, and began whistling loudly with his fingers—a shrill sound that echoed across the entire field. It was impossible to ignore him. He was doing it purely to show off, and everyone knew it.

Daime rolled his eyes and ran toward him.

—Stop showing off, Theo! —he shouted before shoving him hard.

Theo fell onto his back on the synthetic grass, but with an agile movement, he performed a perfect kip-up, returning to his feet as if nothing had happened. The spectators—the classmates and curious onlookers in the stands—responded with laughter and applause.

Theo approached Daime with a provocative smile, his eyes flashing with a mixture of mockery and pleasure.

—Easy, champ... —he said, pulling his friend up from the ground.

And before Daime could react, Theo gave him a firm slap on the ass, biting his lower lip with an openly suggestive expression.

Daime laughed and lightly pushed Theo away, but Ceres, up in the stands, froze. Theo's gesture—that touch, that smile—deeply irritated her. It wasn't merely provocation. It was dominance. A game only he knew how to play, and Ceres knew he was testing her.

Daime adjusted his helmet, still laughing at the scene, and cast a quick glance toward the stands.

—Show-off... —he said, breathless. —Ceres is watching, you know... I figured it out.

Theo ran a hand through his hair, still wearing that crooked smile that mixed irony with certainty.

—Yes —he replied without taking his eyes off Ceres. —She loves me... and I know it.

The two laughed conspiratorially while Ceres, up in the stands, clenched her fists. The sun reflected off the synthetic field, and Theo knew exactly what he was doing—every gesture, every look, every laugh was a move in the game that only he and Ceres understood.

Ceres watched in silence. She had left practice just to see what was happening—Theo faster, more vain, more confident than ever. With every play, he seemed to show how much he had evolved... perhaps because of her.

When Theo took down three opponents with precise body positioning and then waved toward her, Ceres hated the provocation. She felt her heart beat faster, not from love, but from a mixture of anger and admiration.

She tried to look away, but did so a second too late. Theo had already seen the blush rising to her face.

He smiled.

She clenched her fist.

And now the game was no longer confined to the field.

Kan fixes his eyes on Theo. Every muscle in the leader's body tenses, his breathing quickens. There is something in Kan's eyes that awakens Theo's predatory instinct, something that demands an immediate response.

—Are you just going to stand there? —Kan taunts, with a cutting smile.

Theo feels the heat rising through his body. It isn't hatred, it's adrenaline, that need for confrontation that refuses to settle. He sees in Kan not an enemy, but a reflection of his own past: impulsive, relentless, wild.

Dark leans against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile on his face.

—You're going to let that go, little leader? —he taunts. —Just like you used to.

Theo closes his eyes for a moment, controlling the impulse. But it doesn't last. The internal click breaks. He lunges. Kan doesn't back down. He wants this, has always wanted this. The collision is violent, a clash of bodies and ferocity. Fists fly, every movement driven by instinct.

The world around them disappears. Only they exist, as if inside an invisible ring. The others rush to separate them, but nothing diminishes the intensity; every shove carries years of accumulated tension.

Theo sees Kan, sees Dark, sees himself in every reflection. And even when they are separated, the adrenaline continues to pulse, reminding him that through all these years, they never stopped fighting. And in that moment, he knew: today would not be the day it ended.

Daime can't take it anymore.

—Asshole! —he shouts, looking directly at Kan.

The punch comes fast and direct. Kan reacts instantly, striking Daime. But Daime doesn't back down; he hits back hard, and the spark of provocation spreads. Within seconds, the fight becomes widespread: shoving, punches, shouting. Everyone trying to impose themselves, every movement loaded with accumulated adrenaline.

The coach, standing at the edge of the field, simply watches. He doesn't intervene. He doesn't say a word. His silence amplifies the chaos, making every blow more intense, every provocation more dangerous.

In the stands, Ceres watches in horror. Her heart races, her hands covering her mouth. It isn't just the violence—it's the intensity, the lack of control. She backs away, deciding to leave, her face marked by shock and disappointment.

Kan, still breathing heavily, calls out to Theo.

—Only fight when Ceres is around, huh? —he taunts with a challenging smile.

Theo feels something snap inside him. Every word, every provocation is gasoline on his inner fire. He turns, eyes flashing, ready to attack.

Before either fist can land, the others intervene again, separating the two. But the tension remains in the air, electric, as if the violence has left an invisible mark that no one could erase.

The Pool of Hatred

The echo of Ceres's footsteps resonates through the pool gym. She enters with a closed expression, still angry at Theo. That loud, irritating, provocative whistle—and the perfect kip-up after Daime knocked him down. Everything inside her is boiling, a mixture of shame and disguised contempt.

Without saying a word, Ceres changes clothes. Every movement is restrained, calculated, as if the air around her were charged. She begins warming up slowly, stretching with almost ritualistic precision, trying to expel the anger from her body through her breathing.

Gris, already in the pool, notices something different.

Ceres seems to be muttering to herself, her gaze distant, her expression tense.

Gris watches her, intrigued—there is something personal, intimate, pulsing beneath the surface.

Ceres thinks of Theo.

Of that performance.

"Look how free I am, how strong and masculine I am, how beautiful I am."

The whole performance irritates her. His sudden happiness seems fake, as if he were laughing at everything she takes seriously.

Across the pool, Ana glides through the water, eyes half-closed but alert. She notices Gris watching Ceres. The thought comes quickly and venomously:

"Bitches."

She focuses, pushing herself harder. The water seems to boil around her.

The pool is large, but the space never seems enough. The three compete without saying a word.

All of them want leadership.

But Ceres—through talent, instinct, presence—was the leader.

And that hurt them like chlorine burning their eyes.

Ceres dives without warning.

The water explodes around her, cold and cutting. The impact is a relief, a shock that cleans the anger from the surface of her skin—but not from her mind.

She swims hard, every stroke a release, every breath a submerged scream. The sound of the world dissolves into bubbles and splashes. Only the body and the current, only friction and memory.

In her mind, Theo is still whistling.

"Look at me, Ceres."

And she dives deeper, as if she could drown out the sound, erase the image of that insolent smile.

Gris watches from a distance, leaning against the edge, feeling the same discomfort growing inside her. There is something in the way Ceres swims—tense, precise, almost aggressive—that mixes admiration and fear. Gris knows there is more than technique in there. There is pain. There is control trying not to collapse.

Ana appears in the lane beside her, gliding like an arrow. She makes a point of overtaking Ceres. The movement is clean, but the intention is clear.

Ceres feels it.

She reacts.

She accelerates.

The gym fills with heavy breathing and splashing.

Gris enters the water too, unwilling to stay out of the silent war.

Three bodies cutting through the pool—a duel of rhythm and pride. No words, only the sound of arms breaking through the water.

Ceres asserts herself in the final dive, dominating the lane, beating both the clock and the tension. When she surfaces, she breathes heavily.

For a moment, there is silence.

Gris stares at her.

Ana looks away.

And Ceres, still trembling, feels that she hasn't defeated anyone—not them, not herself.

Ceres dives again.

The water swallows her whole—cold, dense, purifying.

Every stroke is a punch against her anger, every breath a failed attempt to calm herself.

She swims hard, without rhythm, driven only by fury.

Theo still echoes in her mind—the mocking smile, the loud whistle, the body springing off the ground with that infuriating ease.

"Look how free I am..."

Ceres closes her eyes for a moment, sinking her face into the water as though she could silence a memory.

Gris keeps pace.

She doesn't try to compete, only watches.

Ceres's movements are precise, but there is a strange weight to them—as if she were fighting someone invisible beneath the water.

Gris feels the urge to swim closer, but pulls back.

She knows this is the kind of storm no one crosses without drowning alongside it.

Ana, on the other side of the pool, accelerates.

Her eyes remain fixed on the wall, but her mind is locked onto Ceres.

"The perfect leader..."

Every time she breathes, she sees Ceres's reflection beside her.

She can't take it anymore.

She increases her pace until she overtakes her.

The sound of the water breaking is her way of cursing without words.

Ceres notices.

Straightens her body.

Pushes harder.

Now the pool becomes a silent battlefield—three women swimming as if the air itself depended on victory.

Gris tries to maintain her balance, Ana wants to win, Ceres wants to disappear.

At the end of the lane, Ceres stops.

She places her hands on the edge and takes a deep breath.

Water runs down her face like tears she refuses to shed.

The gym is silent.

Gris and Ana watch her from a distance, making no attempt to hide their exhaustion or resentment.

Ceres looks at the ceiling, her muscles trembling.

Theo, Kan, the fight, the whistle—it all seems distant and present at the same time.

She closes her eyes.

And for the first time, she is afraid not of the others—but of what is beginning to grow inside her.

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