The Pulse Beneath the Muscle
Levy Reinhardt didn't do quiet.
His world was a symphony of motion: punching bags, running shoes against pavement, the clink of weights, the rustle of protein bar wrappers, and the beep of heart rate monitors. While others found comfort in silence, Levy found it in repetition—in muscle memory, in breath control, in form.
It was early morning when he slipped into Westdentia Academia's underused fitness wing. Most students didn't even know it existed. Levy had found it during a class field trip two years ago and claimed it as his sanctuary. Today, the snow outside piled against the windows in soft drifts while inside, Levy was a whirlwind of sweat and speed on the treadmill.
His playlist blasted through his earbuds—old-school rock with a thunderous beat. He ran harder, faster, as if the friction could burn away the tension that had been knotting his shoulders since the start of the week.
He hated tension. Couldn't stand the invisible weight of it. It reminded him too much of the past.
The room was quiet except for the rhythmic slap of his sneakers and the creak of the treadmill. Levy pushed himself harder.
"You can't run forever, bro," he muttered to himself. "Even if you're literally built for it."
He jumped off the treadmill mid-stride and let himself pace the room. His reflection stared back at him from the long wall mirror: broad-shouldered, black-haired, sweat-slicked. His mother's eyes stared out of his father's frame.
Giselle's amethyst irises had always calmed him as a kid. She'd sit with him when he couldn't sleep, when he cried without reason. Logan, on the other hand, taught him control. Taught him that no one had to see the cracks—as long as you were disciplined enough to keep them from showing.
But even steel got worn.
Levy sighed and walked to the window, wiping fog off the glass with his sleeve. He watched the snow fall, let his thoughts drift to Leina.
She was the baby of the family. But not in the way that made her weak. No, Leina was observant, stubborn, clever—sometimes too clever. She didn't always notice when people stared or whispered, but she noticed when he was off.
He remembered one night after their father came back from a long deployment, and Levy had holed up in his room after a brutal sparring session. Leina had come in with a mango popsicle and just... sat there.
Didn't say a word.
She didn't have to.
That was her way of anchoring people.
He missed that.
A sudden knock on the fitness wing door made him snap to attention. A younger student, out of breath, wide-eyed.
"There's been a problem... with Leina's debate team. Everyone's looking for her brothers."
Levy's heart skipped.
He didn't say anything. Just grabbed his hoodie and jogged past the kid. His pulse had already shifted—not from running, but from something deeper.
Protective instinct.
He was out the door and moving fast. Snow in his hair. No plan. No excuses.
Just one thought pulsing through his veins:
Not my little sister. Not on my watch.