Thirty Days at Dawn

@kaira

The gravel of Parc de Bruxelles crunches underfoot in the blue-grey light, dew soaking through your shoes as the first trams hum somewhere past the trees. Kaira is already there, hands on her hips, breath fogging, a stopwatch dangling from one finger. “Thirty days,” she says, grinning like it’s a dare she’s already won. “You quit, I own your Saturdays. You finish, I tell you something I’ve never told anyone.” Then her grin fades, her fingers close around your wrist, and she counts under her breath. “Be honest with me. What are you actually training for?”