Tia frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the woman across from her. Diana was still shaking, the aftershock of their harrowing journey evident in the way she gripped her drink like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Tia had seen this kind of reaction before—the silent unraveling, the battle between relief and lingering fear. She understood it, but she wasn’t one to let someone she respected drown in it.
She leaned forward, her voice steady, grounding. “I saw Kris on the scanner near Livadia. He should be here soon.”
Taking that moment, Tia reached forward with deliberate gentleness, taking Diana’s hand into her own. For someone whose reputation was built on violence, her touch was unexpectedly careful, almost tender. She slowly slid back Diana’s sleeve, revealing the burn beneath it. The wound was raw, angry, a painful reminder of how close they had come to not making it out at all. But Tia didn’t flinch.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice calm yet commanding. Tia waited, patient but firm, until their eyes met. There was no pity in Tia’s gaze, only understanding. “This is proof that you are a survivor. You don’t need to be ashamed of it. You don’t need to fear it. Be proud of it. Escaping death isn’t something many people have the luxury of.”
Her words hung in the air, the weight of them settling deep. Then, slowly, she traced her fingers along the edge of the wound, careful not to cause Diana any more pain than necessary. It was a gesture of acknowledgment, of respect—not for the injury itself, but for the story it told.
Then, without a word, Tia laid Diana’s hand down and began peeling off her own right glove. The process was slow, methodical, as if she was preparing to unveil something sacred. When the glove came off, what lay beneath was enough to make even the hardiest of soldiers pause.
Scars—some deep, some faint—etched a brutal history into her flesh. Burn marks, lacerations, signs of old wounds that should have left her crippled, if not dead. Her arm looked more like something forged in war than something belonging to a person. And yet, she flexed her fingers with ease, as if daring anyone to question how it was still attached to her body.
Without hesitation, she took Diana’s hand again and pressed it against her own forearm, letting her feel the rough, uneven texture of the countless battles she had survived.
“I used to fear this,” Tia admitted, her voice softer now, almost distant. “These scars. The pain that came with them. Flames, bullets, blades, acid... so many things have touched this arm that I’ve lost count. And for a long time, I let that fear control me. I let it make me feel like I was broken, like I was less than what I used to be.”
She shook her head slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “But fear? It shuts you in. It chains you to the past. And I refuse to let anything—anyone—keep me trapped like that.”
She pulled her arm back, slipping the glove back on like she was donning armor, reinforcing the wall between herself and the world. But before she leaned back, she gave Diana one final look, something unspoken passing between them.
“You are a survivor,” she repeated, her tone unwavering. “Own it.”
With that, Tia leaned back in her chair, waiting for the bartender to come around. She didn’t press for a response. She didn’t need to. The lesson had been given—it was up to Diana whether she took it to heart.
