Pack.
The word settles into my chest like a stone.
Heavy.
Permanent.
Terrifying.
"Were you going to kill yourself?"
The question comes from Sage.
Direct.
Unflinching.
Asking what everyone else was probably thinking but too polite to say.
The table goes silent.
Completelysilent.
Even the ambient sounds of the house seem to fade, leaving nothing but the weight of the question hanging in the air between us.
I could lie.
Could deflect, redirect, deploy the sarcasm and bravado that usually serve as my armor.
But these people have seen me at my worst—dying on a stage surrounded by caged enemies, bleeding and poisoned and completely at their mercy. They've read my letters, caught my volleyballs, claimed me in front of an entire academy.
They deserve the truth.
"Yup."
The word comes out casual.
Toocasual, maybe, for the gravity of what I'm admitting.
"I was going to. The night we met, actually. Or the morning, I guess—after I sent what I thought would be my last letter." My fingers find the napkin again, twisting. "I had it all planned out.The dance was supposed to be my final performance. The cages were supposed to be my last act of defiance. And then..."
I trail off.
And then what?
And then the poison hit too early.
And then a pack of Alphas showed up and refused to let me die.
And then everything changed.
The admission should feel heavier.
Should carry more weight.
But somehow, saying it out loud—in this room, surrounded by these people—makes it feel smaller. More manageable. Like sharing the burden has actually lightened it instead of multiplying the shame.
"How about now?" Sage's voice is quiet.Careful."Are you still planning to?"
