Inside the brightly lit room, Maerwyn was surrounded by modern equipment and the cold breeze from a machine, yet the unease in her chest remained. The walls were pristine white, the lights blinding, and at the center of it all stood a doctor's gaze cold and his tone firm.
"We need to fix your broken arm and leg," he said, straightforward yet with a hint of concern.
Maerwyn couldn't shake off the strange pity in the eyes of those around her. The doctor and nurses approached their grips firm on her shoulders and thighs. "Take a deep breath," one of them said, their voice tinged with nervous compassion.
When the doctor's cold hand touched her arm, pain flared through her body, piercing flesh and bone. Maerwyn shut her eyes tightly, swallowing every scream. Tears escaped her eyes as she heard the sound of her bone snapping back into place sound filled with both agony and an odd sense of relief.
"The arm is done, the doctor announced. "Now for the leg."
The nurses held her more firmly as she endured the pain. The metallic taste of blood lingered on her tongue from biting her lip too hard. Despite everything, she remained resolute, allowing herself to accept the relief brought by their help- something she had never expected from anyone before.
As her leg was being set, Maerwyn stared at the blinding light above. Every pang of pain brought back memories of her past suffering, but alongside them came a slow-growing glimmer of hope- а flicker of possibility amidst the agony.
"Hey, kid! Still holding on? Looks like you're done!" The man's cruel laughter echoed, sharp and mocking. The crowd roared their approval, a wave of harsh jeers and callous amusement crashing over Maerwyn.
She lay sprawled in the dirt, her body screaming in agony, her vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood trickled down her face, mixing with the grime smeared across her skin. Her breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps, but she couldn't afford to collapse—not now.
Not yet.
With a guttural groan, Maerwyn planted her trembling hands against the rough ground and forced herself up. Her knees buckled, and she fell, but sheer determination pushed her to claw her way back to her feet. Her legs trembled violently, but she stood. The crowd's jeers grew louder, their taunts biting into her already frayed resolve.
Before she stood her opponent—also weary, his thin frame betraying the struggle, but his eyes still burning with determination. Neither could yield; the stakes were too high. This wasn't just a fight; it was a fight for survival—for a single piece of bread.
"Still have strength?" her enemy smirked, his voice dripping with arrogance and confidence. "This will be the last blow, and you're finished."
Maerwyn didn't respond. Words were useless now. She didn't have the strength to waste on banter, nor did she care for the mockery. Her narrowed gaze stayed fixed on her opponent. Her mind worked frantically, calculating her next move.
When the man lunged, confident in his victory, Maerwyn staggered back, pretending to retreat. It was a gamble, but one she was willing to take.
The opponent's grin widened, and that was when Maerwyn struck.
With a sudden burst of speed, she launched herself into the air. Her legs became a blur as she executed a devastating double kick. The first strike hit the man's side with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and the second—a precise blow to the neck—sent him crashing to the ground. The impact silenced the crowd in an instant.
"Whoa! Did you see that?" someone shouted, breaking the stunned silence.
Maerwyn didn't celebrate. She couldn't. Her breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, her entire body trembling as she stared at her fallen opponent. Her thoughts were singular, desperate: Please don't get up. I can't do this anymore.
Around her, murmurs filled the air.
"Is he giving up?"
"Looks like he's got nothing left..."
Finally, the man's body went limp. He lay motionless on the dirt. A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd.
Maerwyn's knees gave out, and she collapsed to the ground. Her hands braced against the earth as her head hung low, her body battered and bloodied. Sweat and blood dripped freely from her face, and her chest heaved with every ragged breath.
This was her eighteenth victory. Eighteen grueling battles for a single piece of bread.
The cheers faded into background noise, leaving only the sound of her labored breathing and the dull ache radiating through every muscle. Even in victory, an emptiness gnawed at her, an unshakable hollowness.
At just twelve years old, Maerwyn understood what survival demanded—and the harshness of a world where strength was the only thing that mattered.
"Done. We're done," the doctor announced abruptly, pulling her back to the present. His voice cut through the haze, grounding her in the reality of the moment.
"Miss... what's wrong?" a woman in white asked softly, her voice tender and laced with genuine concern. Maerwyn turned to look at her, momentarily captivated by the warmth in her tone. It was the first time in her life she had heard a voice so gentle, and it stirred something unfamiliar inside her. She shook her head, a small and hesitant gesture of denial.
The woman gasped softly and exchanged a glance with the man standing beside her. He stepped closer, his presence solid and reassuring. "Are you sure? Nothing hurts?" he asked again, his brows furrowed with concern.
Once more, she shook her head, more firmly this time. The relief in their faces was almost palpable, and for a moment, Maerwyn found herself marveling at their reactions. Why did they seem so... happy? Was it because she finally responded? She remembered how, earlier, when they bombarded her with questions, she had only stared back in silence, wary and uncertain. But now, buoyed by an unexplainable sense of ease, she had shaken her head without hesitation.
For the first time, she answered someone—without fear, without bracing herself for the sting of a whip or the harsh blow of a reprimand. The realization was almost overwhelming, and a quiet sense of triumph blossomed in her chest.
"I think she needs to see a psychologist," another voice chimed in from the corner, this one more clinical and detached. "She may have experienced trauma even before the accident."
Trauma. Maerwyn didn't fully understand the word, but the weight behind it made her feel exposed, as though her deepest scars were being laid bare for strangers to see. She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers twitching on the edge of the bed.
That was when she noticed the glistening eyes of the woman who had first spoken to her. Tears. Tears of empathy and something Maerwyn couldn't name. Confusion crept in as she realized her tears were still streaming down her cheeks.
Why were they crying? Why did their emotions seem to mirror her own so deeply?
And then it hit her. These people—these strangers—weren't angry. They weren't disappointed in her. They weren't asking for anything in return. For the first time, she felt no fear of punishment, no need to brace herself for pain. All they offered was care, genuine, and unyielding.
The tears came faster now, blurring her vision. She had spent her entire life swallowing her cries, hiding her pain from the world. But here, in this stark, white room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces filled with compassion, Maerwyn finally allowed herself to feel it all—the pain, the relief, the tentative hope—and let it flow freely.
The woman in white reached out hesitantly, as if afraid her touch might startle Maerwyn. When their hands met, it was soft, warm, and so achingly kind that Maerwyn's sobs turned into quiet, broken gasps.
"It's okay," the woman whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You're safe now."
Safe. The word wrapped around Maerwyn like a fragile cocoon, one she feared might shatter at any moment. But for now, it was enough. For now, she let herself believe.
Maerwyn stared silently at the ceiling. Sweat and tears streamed down her face, a constant reminder of her pain and suffering. Yet, a sliver of relief—a moment of quiet—settled over her.
Her broken bones had just been stabilized; her arm and leg were carefully bandaged. The quiet movements of the medical staff were abruptly interrupted by the forceful opening of the door.
A man in a pristine black suit entered, utterly devoid of dust. His hair was neatly styled, his polished shoes gleaming. He was strikingly different from everyone else in the room. He looked at Maerwyn, his gaze cold and emotionless, as if she were an object, not a person.
"Prepare her," he commanded coldly but firmly. "Reporters are waiting for her interview." His voice held undeniable authority, brooking no argument.
"Sir, isn't it too soon? She needs rest," the doctor responded cautiously, pleading for leniency.
The man's expression remained unchanged. "You are not in a position to decide," he replied harshly, then swiftly exited.
The doctor remained silent, visibly shaken.
"Tss... Money talks," a nurse muttered under her breath.
"Shhh! Be quiet," her colleague hissed, fearing they'd be overheard.
"Do what's necessary," the doctor instructed, concealing his disappointment.
The medical staff worked quietly, their earlier concern for Maerwyn replaced by tension and apprehension following the vice-chairman's visit.
Maerwyn remained silent, oblivious to the unfolding events. She observed, her heart racing, but her face remained impassive.