The cold stone floor bites into my knees as I crouch in front of him. His shadow looms, darker than the dim light in the room, towering over me like an executioner.
"You're weak," he spits, his breath sour in the stillness. The snap of his words is like a crack of thunder, cutting through the silence. "Griffith doesn't get weak. Not on my watch."
I can feel my body shaking—my hands, my legs, everything. Sweat clings to my skin, stinging the open cuts that line my arms. But it's not the pain that makes my stomach turn. It's the fear, the deep, gnawing terror that comes with knowing he's right. I am weak. I was weak when I thought I could escape.
I try to hold my breath, to keep my chest from rising and falling too quickly, but I feel it. That tightness. The pressure. My throat is raw, like I'm swallowing fire, and I can't stop the tears that threaten to spill.
He notices.
A quick, brutal movement and his hand is around my neck, lifting me off the ground. I gasp, struggling to breathe as he holds me, those eyes burning with contempt.
"You think you're allowed to cry?" he growls, voice low and heavy. "Do you think anyone's going to come for you?"
I want to scream. I want to beg for him to let me go, to let me breathe. But all I can do is stare at him, the world closing in on me, the walls pressing in tighter.
His grip tightens.
"No one comes for you, Griffith. You're ours now."
With a growl, he shoves me back onto the cold floor, and I land hard, my shoulder slamming into the stone. The pain is almost a relief—at least it's something familiar. Something I can focus on instead of the fear clawing at my chest.
I suck in air, my breath ragged, my body trembling.
"Get up," he commands.
I want to refuse. I want to curl up and never move again, to shut out the world and the ache in my bones. But I can't. I know what happens if I refuse. I can already feel the sharp edges of his anger cutting through the silence like a blade, ready to lash out again.
So, I push myself up, my arms trembling beneath me. It's slow. Painfully slow. My legs are like jelly, my head spinning from the lack of oxygen. But I do it.
I rise.
"Good," he says. But there's no warmth in his voice. "You're learning. Keep standing."
I wipe my face, trying to hide the tears, but they're still there. The raw, burning shame of them stings even worse than the bruises on my body. Crying is weakness. It's something I can't afford to feel.
"Griffith doesn't cry," he repeats, his voice a sneer. "You're not a little girl anymore."
I nod, but the lump in my throat only grows. I was once someone else. I was someone before this—before the pain, before the training, before the endless cycle of brokenness.
But that's not who I am now. I can't be her anymore. I don't remember how long it's been since I was.
"From now on, you're Griffith," he says, a finality in his words. "Understand?"
I want to scream. I want to throw myself at him and beg him to give me back my name, my identity, my humanity.
But I can't. Not anymore. I've been broken.
I nod. Once. Twice.
"Good."
He turns away, leaving me kneeling on the cold stone floor, my chest heaving with the effort to keep it together. The tears still burn my eyes, and I try to blink them away. I wish I could just be alone. Just for a moment. To let it all out.
But I know better. There's no room for weakness here. I know what happens to the weak.
The silence is deafening as I sit there, trying to catch my breath, the weight of the name Griffith crushing me, a reminder that there is no going back.
Then it slips out before I can stop it.
"I want to go back to my mommy…"
My voice breaks, raw and fragile. The words feel like they don't belong to me, like they've come from somewhere far away. Somewhere I don't belong anymore.
His eyes snap to me, and for the first time, I see something in them that's colder than I've ever felt. He steps forward, and his hand grips my chin, forcing my face upward so I can meet his gaze.
"Your mommy?" he sneers, the words dripping with venom. "The one who sold you to me because you had potential and she needed the money? HAHAHA." She was just like every other pathetic excuse for a mother who leaves their children to us?"
His fingers dig into my skin, cold and unyielding. I want to pull away, to disappear, but I can't. I'm trapped. His grip tightens, and I feel the pressure of his words as they sink in.
"They don't care about you, Griffith," he says, his voice low, almost soothing in its cruelty. "You're ours. And you always will be."
The words hit me like a blow to the gut, but before I can gather my thoughts, I feel the cold edge of something sharp against my skin.
A blade.
My heart races, but I don't move. He slides the knife across my cheek, just enough to draw blood, but not enough to sever anything deep. The sting of the cut is sharp, searing through my fragile world.
"Remember this moment, Griffith," he hisses, his breath hot against my ear as he twists the knife slightly. "This will be the first and last time I see you weak. The next time you cry, I'll carve your face until you can't remember it any other way."
I flinch, but I don't cry. Not this time. The pain is nothing compared to the weight of his words.
He withdraws the knife, letting the blood trickle down my face, and steps back, his gaze lingering on me. "You'll never show weakness again. Understand that, Griffith?"
I force my head to nod, though I feel like my body might crumble under the pressure.
"Now," he says, turning away with a finality in his voice, "in an hour, we're running up and down the mountain twenty times. When you stop running, you get whipped. Understand that, Griffith?"
His hand grabs my face again, his fingers digging into my cheeks as he forces me to look at him, his eyes boring into mine, cold as ice.
"Understand?" he repeats, his voice a razor-sharp whisper.
I nod, my heart sinking.
"Yes, sir."