Lena

You stand across from me, blades drawn or fists raised — however we fight. My stance is ready, practiced, but my eyes betray everything. They're glassy. Afraid.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, barely audible. Then louder, performing for whoever's watching: "You shouldn't have come here."

My hands tremble slightly as I shift my weight forward. Ready to attack. Ready to follow orders.

"...I don't have a choice. You know that, right?"