The training floor is one of the most impressive floors in the Pyramid if you ask me. It’s grand, bigger than the ballroom. There’s a corner with proper training equipment, like at a gym, a rack with weapons of all sorts, and mattresses in the middle.

And the pride and joy. A running track. My feet long to run on it, to see what I can do. I jump as a spark from the floor electrocutes my shoe.

“Erika will work with you on that,” Zeph grimaces, “Uncontrollable magic. It comes out in sparks when we realize the power we possess. As if tipping the glass a little spilled the entire ocean."

“Can I run?” I ask, pointing to the running tracks.

“I don't know,” Zeph smiles, leaning against the bars, “Can you.”

“I hate you,” I say, shaking out my limbs. He motions towards the track, letting me go. I nod, taking the hint and I start to run.

The flooring is not my preferable ground, too smooth and soft. I like how real asphalt feels, or how textured grass and dirt are. I guess the last time I run on flooring like this was in school. I’ll definitely use the garden path more than this one.

“How was it?” Zeph asks as I finish my round.

“Good,” I tell him, “How fast was I?”

“Very,” He nods, like it’s a real measurement, “I barely got to enjoy the view.”

“Can we start training?” I ask, trying to get back on track.

“Sure thing,” He leans towards me as he gets off the wall, then walks past me towards the maddresses in the middle, “Combat training it is then. I do think Morrigan would be a better suit for this. She is a professional with a ravier. Of course, a professional fencer is no good in real combat, but she sure looks fine doing it.”

“Isn't she your ex?” I ask him, “Don't people dislike their exes?”

“I have a total of six friends,” He cocks his thick eyebrow, “I don't have time to resent any of them. Besides, I ended it because I knew she didn't love me. It was complicated. She liked having someone, but she didn't really need it. I guess I still love her in my own way. I don't think I could ever just stop loving someone.”

While talking, he takes off his navy knit, revealing a linen shirt underneath. I suddenly wish I had put on a t-shirt underneath. I've never really been self conscious about body odor, I knew it was inevitable with my lifestyle, but something about the fresh shower and clean sheets have made me think about silly, frivolous things.

“First,” He says, throwing his sweater into the air. It floats gently across the room, landing beside the door. “We’ll go over some defensive movements so you have something to fall back on in case of attack. With your power, I think it’ll be beneficial to focus on either running from the problem or utilizing speed to disarm your opponent.”

“I know how to run away from danger,” I laugh stiffly, Zeph’s eyes softening, “Isn’t the whole point of my powers supposed to be a reflection of me as a person?”

“Then I’ll teach you to stop running from danger,” He flashes me his perfectly white teeth in a grin. Touching his biceps, he pulls something from it. At first I think it’s coming from underneath his shirt. A hidden weapon. Then I see how his flesh moves to give way to the silver shaft. He doesn't grunt or cringe as the head of the axe pops out. And as if nothing happened, his skin stitches back together perfectly. No scar, no nothing. Not even blood on the weapon.

“I thought you did wind stuff,” I say.

“I am a man of many talents,” He proclaims proudly, “Come here, let's start. You simply have to take the axe from me. Don't worry, it’s not sharp, and it’s rather soft. Not real metal, but it will still hurt if you are hit. And not to brag, but I am a great hitter.”

He winks at the last line. I feel nerves building inside me, like cancer cells suffocating my heart, like hands around my neck. I get into a stance, knees bent, hands fisted.

“Easy,” I lie to myself. If I say it, I might believe it.

So we spar. Or rather, Zeph spars while I try to get around him. He clearly knows how to use an axe, slashing through the air like butter. He even has the audacity to look relaxed as he does so, pulling his other arm around his back, limiting himself even further.

My job should be simple. Use my speed to separate him from the axe. Slight problem is that I still don't know how to do magic. Am I just supposed to run? Or do I have to will it?

I see it in his eyes when it happens. He loses some of that spark as he starts taking me seriously. His eyes are always a second too slow as he tries to follow my moments, like he is watching my shadow and not me. I smile. I think this might be the purest form of happiness I’ve felt in a very long time. I am to be feared.

Dashing forward, I duck and twist my torso, arms reaching for the hand holding the knife. I feel the cold metal connect with my fingers as I grab his hand, but just as I was about to yank the axe away, something heavy connects with my shoulder, knocking me to the ground.

“What was that?!” I exclaim as I rub my shoulder where Zeph hit me. I look up to see him holding a small, black club, like those police use. I’ve never seen one in real life, they are not exactly part of the danish police get up, but I know of them from children’s cartoons, and movies I snuck into when I was bored.

“A club,” Zeph says, spinning it around his finger effortlessly, then pushing it into his neck, the club disappearing, “I already showed you what I can do, you should have expected me to do it again. Always use your eyes, Camilla, you never noticed one of my arms disappearing to get the weapon. Always know where the arms are.”

“I hate fighting,” I groan, not bothering to get up, “I hate this. Can't I learn something that’s more suitable for me? We already know I am a runner, I should learn to control that first.”

“I was properly the only one Erika could fit into training today,” Zeph shrugs, offering me his hand to help me up, “She is in charge of a lot of stuff. And well, I’ve been not doing stuff for a couple of years now.”

His eyes sadden and I begin to feel sorry for him. I resent that feeling, so to make up for it I grab his hand and let him pull me up, close to him. I take a step back.

“Why?” I ask him, like a student asking about their teacher’s day to shorten the lesson.

“I guess it broke me when Javier died,” Zeph admits, not even looking at me, then he laughs once, and I feel sorry for him once again, “I mean everyone knows that. That’s not even a confession. It shattered me like nothing ever could. He was the first thing I saw when I woke up that first day, he was the person who taught me English and Spanish because I could only speak a language he didn't know of. He was the reason I even joined the Organization. So yeah, I guess I haven't been doing as much around here as the others.”

“You were doing something before we picked you up on our way here,” I remind him, trying to comfort him to the best of my abilities.

“I was visiting an old safehouse Javier and I used to run,” Zeph says.

“Sentimental,” I nod.

I see it in his face as he understands. We both understand this powerful feeling of sentimentality that you can only know when you have nothing. We find these small objects, like journals or places, and we pour everything we are into them. Until one day we realize we can't live without them. That we'll drown or explode without them.

“I want to show you something,” He says confusedly, realizing it while he says it, “I don't know why.”

“Please don't,” I beg him, “Let’s just train.”

He stands like a statue while I get up and shake out my limbs.

“Right, sorry.” He shakes his head, getting ready to go again, “This time, you have to use your eyes, not your gut. You need to be alert.”

“I can be alert,” I say jokingly, “I am always alert.”

“I bet you are,” Zeph laughs like pure thunder, deep from his chest.

So we go again. And we go again. Sometimes I get the axe, sometimes I don't. I end up on the floor more times than I can count, and as we leave the training floor I start to notice the ache in my body from the parts where he hit me.

“Take a shower, I’ll let Adi and Erika know that you and I are done for today,” Zeph says, pressing the button for the floor with our rooms on it.

I nod and get off the elevator as the door opens, then head straight for my own room. There’s a brown carton box on my bed, and I quickly peek inside to find it filled with rolled-up posters, string lights, and some plants. There’s a note on it. From Erika.

I smile and take a long, hot shower. It’s been years since I last took a shower only a day after I had my last one. I could go months without proper washing before, but now I find I need it like a lung, the clean feeling of control. I want to own focus, and I guess being clean makes me focused. Makes me feel awake. I think about what Zeph said. I need to use my eyes, not my gut.

When I get out of the shower I look at myself in the mirror. My long, dark brown hair clings to my skull and shoulders. I feel like a horror movie ghost who drowned. I search the cabins and find a blowdryer, then use it on my hair. Then I pick up different strands, move them around. I want it to look like me, but I don't know what that looks like. As a child, I always had long hair. I never took care of it so it was always just a big dark mess. My mom cut my bangs a few months before she died, and I kept them for a few years, but a couple of months ago I stopped bothering to cut them. I guess that happened around the same time Dana died.

I pick up a pair of scissors from one of the cabinets. They are all stoked with hygiene products, bandaids, and everything else I might come to need.

I look at myself in the mirror. Maybe it’s finally time to let go. I take a deep breath.

And then I don't do anything. I don't breathe, I don't think. I don't cut any hair. I thought I would, I really did. I wanted to, but I just can't.

It’s not about the hair.