"I will join the army."
The words hung in the air, echoing in the vast dining room of the grand estate. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause. Perhaps, if anyone else had said it, it wouldn't have mattered. It would've been just another declaration from an idealistic young soul yearning for purpose. But these words came from her lips.
The youngest daughter of the wealthiest family in the city—she was their beloved jewel, their darling, their "princess." A girl whose hands had never touched dishwater, whose path was paved with marble and adorned with roses. Her world was one of gala nights, glittering chandeliers, and quiet afternoons spent in lush gardens, sipping tea as the world bent around her whims. Yet, here she stood, with those fateful words rolling off her tongue like thunder in a clear sky.
Her family's protests were immediate and fierce. Her father, a titan of business, who had built his empire from nothing, slammed his fist on the table. "This is absurd!" he roared. Her mother, ever composed, paled as if she'd been struck. Her three older brothers, protective to a fault, swarmed her with questions, arguments, and pleas. But nothing worked.
She was resolute, standing in the eye of the storm with an eerie calmness that none of them recognized. The girl who never defied, who never asked for more than was offered, suddenly had the kind of fire in her eyes that burned through reason. And before they could comprehend what was happening, she was gone.
At just 17, she packed a modest bag—a simple backpack, out of place in her opulent surroundings—and walked away from the only life she'd ever known. No fanfare, no goodbyes. Even her closest friends were left in the dark. They believed the story she fed them: that she was heading abroad to study at some prestigious university. It was a believable lie, and one they happily accepted.
But the truth was far less glamorous and infinitely more mysterious. She entered a world no one expected of her, one filled with grit, discipline, and struggle. A world that would test every fiber of her being and transform her into someone unrecognizable. What drove her to leave her cushioned life behind? Was it rebellion, a thirst for independence, or something deeper, something she couldn't put into words even for herself?
Five years passed. Five long, silent years. She disappeared from the public eye, her name whispered in hushed tones at parties and family gatherings. Her parents crafted elaborate stories to protect their reputation, while her brothers quietly searched for answers, hearts heavy with worry.
And then, one day, she returned.
Her posture was straighter, her gaze sharper, her movements deliberate and controlled. But her eyes... her eyes held a storm of memories, secrets she would not—could not—share. She was no longer the pampered princess who left the mansion that fateful day. She was someone entirely new.
Now, she faced the greatest challenge yet—not the battlefield, but the world she had left behind. Could she fit into a life of ease and luxury after seeing the other side? Could she reconcile the two versions of herself, or would she find herself forever torn between them?
The airport hall, usually a place of anticipation and goodbyes, had descended into chaos. Fear hung heavy in the air, each echoing scream amplifying the tension. Most people ran for their lives, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. But amidst the pandemonium, one figure stood out—a girl with sharp eyes, black boots that struck the floor with confidence, and a high ponytail that swayed with each calculated step.
She didn't run. Instead, she moved against the tide, her lean frame slipping through the crowd with ease. Every movement was deliberate, her mind honed by years of discipline. This wasn't the same girl who had left her family five years ago.
As she approached the scene, she crouched behind an overturned table, her breathing steady, her hands clutching the edge of the furniture. Her sharp gaze took in every detail. Two men with guns stood near the main terminal doors, their bodies tense as they barked orders at the terrified crowd. Nearby, a security guard lay on the cold, marble floor, his uniform stained with blood. Her eyes quickly scanned his chest—he was alive, but only barely.
Her focus then shifted to the little boy nearby. His small frame shook with uncontrollable sobs as he clutched his throat, his face reddening from lack of air. A sudden rush of anger surged through her veins as she realized the men with guns were doing nothing—just standing there, watching the child struggle.
"Rat, hurry up! What's taking you so long?" one of the masked gunmen snapped, his impatience cutting through the air like a blade.
The one called Rat scurried toward them, clutching a bag tightly to his chest. He was skinny, his shoulders hunched, and his hoarse voice matched the nervousness in his gait. "It's done, so let's go! If we don't move now, the police will be here any second!"
The girl's eyes narrowed, her mind piecing together the scene. They had a plan. This wasn't a random act of violence; they were here for something specific, and whatever was in that bag was likely the key.
But there was no time to dwell on their motives. She glanced back at the boy. His breathing was worsening—his cries were growing weaker, his tiny hands clawing at his neck as if he were choking. Her jaw tightened.
She adjusted her position, careful to stay hidden. Her instincts were screaming at her to move, to act. Her training had drilled into her the importance of timing and precision, but it was moments like this—when lives hung in the balance—that tested her resolve.
The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out a small pocketknife she always carried. It was sleek, sharp, and discreet. A relic from her years in the field. She glanced at the bloodied guard, the trembling boy, and the gunmen who were distracted for the moment, arguing among themselves about their next move.
The clock was ticking. If she waited any longer, the boy might not make it.
Her heart thudded steadily in her chest as she tightened her grip on the knife. Then, with a deep breath, she made her decision.
It was time to act.
The girl with the high ponytail remained crouched, her breathing steady as her sharp eyes scanned the chaos unfolding around her. Every movement, every sound, she observed with careful precision. Then, her gaze flickered to a subtle motion—the faint creak of a window slowly sliding open from the outside.
The police had arrived.
Her heart quickened, but her resolve hardened. The officers would be moving in soon, but the situation was far from under control. One of the gunmen, growing agitated, raised his weapon, pointing it at the hostages trembling near the corner.
Her instincts screamed. There was no time to wait. No time for doubt.
In one fluid motion, she gripped the black dagger strapped to her thigh. With practiced ease, she flung it through the air. The blade sliced through the chaos like a whisper, embedding itself into the man's shoulder before he could pull the trigger.The gun clattered to the floor, and in that instant, she moved.
Like the wind, she sprinted toward them, her boots pounding against the marble floor. The second gunman turned, startled, but she was already on him. Her fist connected with his jaw, a sharp crack that sent him stumbling backward. He recovered quickly, lunging toward her with the weapon in hand, but she ducked, her movements swift and precise.
She twisted his arm, forcing the gun to drop, and delivered a sharp kick to his knee. He fell with a grunt, but before he could recover, she pinned him to the ground, her knee pressing into his back.
The first man, injured but furious, lunged toward her. She turned just in time to block his swing, catching his wrist and twisting it with a sharp motion that sent him crying out in pain. Using his momentum against him, she flipped him onto the floor, her boot pressing down on his arm to ensure he stayed down.
It was over in seconds, but every movement was a calculated blur of speed and strength.
The hostages, who had been frozen in terror, now scattered, their fear giving way to relief as they rushed toward the exits.
The skinny man, Rat, who had been watching in disbelief, panicked. He turned to flee, but it was too late. The police burst into the hall, their weapons drawn and commands ringing through the air. One officer tackled him to the ground, securing him before he could make another move.
Breathing heavily, the girl stood amidst the chaos, her ponytail swaying as she surveyed the scene. The two gunmen lay subdued at her feet, groaning in pain but unable to move. Around her, the hostages were being ushered to safety by the officers.
One of the senior policemen approached her, his face a mixture of shock and gratitude. "You—who are you?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
She glanced at him, her expression calm but unreadable. Without a word, she bent down to retrieve her black dagger, wiped it clean on the fallen man's sleeve, and sheathed it at her side.
The air grew tense as the girl wiped the blade of her black dagger and sheathed it with precision. The click of her boots on the marble floor was drowned out by the sound of guns being drawn and voices barking commands.
"Freeze!"