Jenna stared at herself in the mirror. Gone was the sobbing mess from earlier—honestly, she looked like she'd eaten the old version of herself for breakfast. Shoulders back, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Seriously, not even a hint of that old softness left; she looked like she'd slap you if you tried to mention it.
She raised the gun—sleek, shiny, way too expensive-looking for someone her age, but whatever. Funny how it didn't even feel heavy anymore. Comforting, almost. She leveled it at her reflection, head cocked just so, like she was daring her own eyes to blink first. The vibe? Pure control. Power trip, 100%.
Silence hung in the training room. Well, except for the sound of her heels—click, click, click—like she was announcing: "Hey, world, watch out." She played with the gun's safety, flicking it back and forth, the sound slotting right into her pulse. Weirdly satisfying.
