By the time a month passed at St. Briar, Layla had stopped counting days. She measured time differently now—by tension.
The air in the dorm thickened before a fight. The cafeteria hummed with it before inspections. She learned to read those shifts like a sixth sense, just like the streets had taught her.
But what the streets hadn't taught her was patience.
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The Quiet Power
Reese ruled the dorm the same way the staff ruled the building: by presence alone. She never raised her voice, never threw a punch unless she had to.
Layla started to do the same.
She didn't seek fights. She diffused them. When the younger girls whispered about running or self-harm, she talked them down quietly, pretending she didn't care, though inside it shook her.
One afternoon, she caught two girls arguing over stolen shoes. The shouting drew eyes fast. The old Layla would've told them to swing or shut up. The new Layla just stepped between them.
"Pick a wall and cool off," she said. "Both of you. Before staff shows."
They froze. Something about her tone made them listen. Reese, watching from across the room, gave the smallest nod.
That nod hit harder than any compliment.
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The Scar Behind the Smile
Later that night, Reese sat on her bunk, cleaning the split in her knuckle from breaking up another scuffle. "You're starting to sound like me," she said.
Layla smirked. "Maybe you're starting to sound like me."
Reese chuckled—a low, rusty sound. "Don't get cocky, kid. Control's a razor. Hold it too tight, and it'll cut you."
Layla hesitated. "That happen to you?"
Reese looked at her for a long moment before answering. "Yeah. Couple times. Thought I could fix people. Thought I could outsmart the system. All I did was trade one cage for another."
Layla stared at the floor, her heartbeat heavy. "So what do we do then?"
Reese shrugged. "Keep breathing. Keep your fire small enough to survive, big enough to remind you you're alive."
The words sank deep, embedding themselves in the same place Jayden's memory lived.
---
The Letter That Never Came
Every Sunday, mail was handed out. Letters from family, caseworkers, nobody who stayed long enough to mean anything.
Layla never got one. Not from the social worker, not from the system—and especially not from Jayden.
But she kept hoping.
Each time the staff called names, her stomach knotted. Each time her name wasn't read, she told herself she didn't care. But she did. Every week felt like proof that Jayden's fire had gone out.
She didn't know that somewhere, miles away, he was staring at a wall, whispering her name under his breath.
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The Sketch
That night, Layla sat with her notebook open, the dorm silent except for the hum of the vents. Her pencil scratched across the page, sketching Reese's silhouette surrounded by smaller flames—girls of St. Briar, each one flickering, unstable, but real.
Across the page she drew a mirror image—a torch standing alone, the flame steady, taller.
She wrote under it: Some fires light others.
She didn't know if she meant Reese or herself. Maybe both.
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The Riot Drill
The next morning, the alarms blared—fake drills that never felt fake. Guards stormed halls, barking orders. Girls shouted, cowered, shoved.
Layla froze for a second, heart slamming, old instincts screaming run. But then she saw a younger girl—tiny, shaking under her bunk, sobbing.
Without thinking, Layla dropped down, grabbed her hand. "Come on. We're fine. Just a drill."
The girl clung to her like a lifeline.
When the alarms finally died, the dorm was chaos—crying, yelling, guards cursing. But Layla stayed calm, her hand steady on the kid's shoulder.
Reese caught her eye through the crowd and mouthed one word: Leader.
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The Reflection
That night, after lights out, Layla stared at the ceiling, heart still heavy from the drill. She realized that power wasn't just about who people feared. It was about who they turned to when everything fell apart.
She wasn't sure she wanted that responsibility. But she didn't turn away from it either.
For the first time since she'd lost Jayden, she felt like she understood something about him—about why he'd fought so hard, about how fire could both destroy and protect.
---
The Final Line
She opened her notebook one last time that night. The pages were almost full now—drawings of cages, flames, faces.
On the last empty line, she wrote: Fire doesn't need walls. It needs purpose.
Then she closed the book and let the hum of the vents lull her to sleep.