Luelle
I pressed my palm to the scar on my shoulder, the faint reminder of a bullet wound that had changed the trajectory of my life thirteen years ago. The memory of that night still burned vividly—the chaos, the screams, the exact moment I collided with Ethan, throwing myself in the path of the sniper's bullet to shield him. I had done my job, completed the mission, and saved him.
My earliest memories weren't of softness or play but of unyielding precision, where mistakes weren't allowed, and childhood wasn't mine to hold. I never knew the warmth most children have—the laughter, the carefree moments. From the time I could walk, I was shaped, moulded into something far removed from innocence. There were no toys or fairy tales, only discipline and structure, constants that filled every corner of my life.
My days began before the sun rose, my small body tested in ways that felt endless, impossible. I moved without sound, struck without hesitation, endured without complaint. The bruises and scrapes from my first combat lessons weren't badges of failure—they were milestones, each one proof that I could withstand more than anyone thought I should. Praise from my instructors came rarely, but when it did, it cut through the silence like a sliver of light. "Again," they'd say, their voices sharp and firm, leaving no room for anything but obedience. And I obeyed—not out of fear, but because I didn't understand anything else. Disobedience was foreign to me, like the concept didn't even exist.
Stealth wasn't taught as something to learn—it became part of me, instinct as natural as breathing. By seven, I could slip unnoticed into the folds of any environment—dense forests or crowded streets, it didn't matter. I wasn't just invisible; I belonged to the shadows, disappearing like smoke. And when I followed someone, they never knew I was there, even if I stayed close for hours. My small frame made me unnoticeable, but my silence made me unstoppable.
It wasn't just the physical training that shaped me. Covert operations were puzzles I learned to solve with unsettling ease. Adopting identities became second nature—a game of costumes where I could shift accents, change the way I moved, alter the way I spoke until I became someone else entirely. Who I was didn't matter. I was whoever the mission needed me to be. There wasn't just one version of Luelle—there were many, each one stitched into the fabric of the life I was meant to infiltrate. I was fluid, adaptable. I was everything I had been crafted to become. And in that precision, in those missions, I found purpose—even if it meant losing myself along the way.
When I was fourteen, my father told me I'd be going to school—to learn how to act, how to blend in, how to be a part of something I had never known. The idea of it felt foreign. School wasn't meant for people like me; it was meant for children who didn't carry the weight of discipline and precision in every breath. But I obeyed, as I always did, not questioning the purpose. Three years, he said. The plan was clear: I'd learn how to exist among others, how to perfect the illusion of normalcy.
The plan was three years. Three years to learn how to blend in, how to exist among people who had never been trained to see the world the way I did. Three years to master the illusion of normalcy. But in the end, I only had one.
And in that year, something unexpected happened. I built friendships—real ones, not calculated alliances or strategic connections. Aria, James, Rowan… and Ethan. They weren't just people I observed or interacted with out of necessity. They became part of me in a way I hadn't anticipated. They taught me warmth, laughter, the quiet ease of companionship. And Ethan… Ethan took my heart without even realizing it.
I never spoke the words aloud. I don't think I knew how. Love was never part of the structure I was raised in. It wasn't something I had been taught, only something I felt—sharp, undeniable, a truth I carried silently. And when the moment came, when his life hung in the balance, there was no hesitation. No fear. I did what I was made for. I protected him.
A sniper at a school ball. I stepped into the bullet's path, offered my life for his without a second thought. Because Ethan was more than just someone to guard. He was more than duty, more than responsibility. He was the one thing that had ever felt real to me.
I remember his gaze turning toward me in surprise as I reached him. "Luelle?" he said, his voice carrying both confusion and recognition.
I didn't answer. Words weren't important anymore. The shot rang out, a sharp crack that split the air, and I stepped into its path without hesitation. Pain exploded in my chest, white-hot and all-consuming. My knees buckled, but I barely registered the motion—everything was a haze of sound and sensation.
Ethan caught me before I hit the ground, his arms wrapping around me, his voice breaking through the noise. "Luelle! No, no, no—stay with me. Please, stay with me."
I wanted to tell him it was okay, that this was how it was supposed to be. But my throat was too tight, the pain too overwhelming. All I could do was focus on him—the panic in his eyes, the way he held me like I was the most important thing in the world. And even as the darkness closed in, I held onto one thought: Ethan was safe. That was all that mattered.
The last thing I heard was his voice, pleading, calling my name. And then there was silence. But even in that silence, I felt him—like a tether pulling me toward something I couldn't reach anymore. He didn't know, wouldn't remember. But I'd made my choice. And he was worth it. Always.
When I woke, the world felt distant—cold, sterile, stripped of the warmth I had barely begun to understand. My body ached, my mind sluggish, but before I could fully grasp where I was, their words cut through the haze like steel.
"Your mission is complete. He is safe, and your presence is no longer required."
That was it. No comfort, no recognition of sacrifice—just confirmation that my purpose had been fulfilled. I was no longer necessary.
The weight of those words pressed down on me, more suffocating than the pain in my chest. My life as a student was gone. The friendships I had built, the people who had become more than assignments or strategic bonds—they would never know the truth. To them, I was nothing more than a memory now. A name whispered with sorrow. A loss they believed was real.
Aria, Rowan, James… Ethan.
They thought I was dead. And in a way, maybe they were right. The version of me who had learned to laugh, who had begun to dream of something beyond duty, beyond orders—that girl had been erased.
When I was strong enough to stand again, the Dominion wasted no time. The brief illusion of another life—the one where I had friends, where I was more than a weapon—was gone. In its place, they honed me into something else entirely.
I became an assassin whispered about in the darkest corners of their enemies. My missions were ruthless, my efficiency unmatched. I was no longer just a protector; I was a force, precise and deadly, sharpened to perfection. But even as I followed orders, I never acted blindly. I set my own rules, ones the Dominion never saw but I followed without hesitation. Every target was carefully chosen, each execution deliberate.
Because my purpose had never changed.
Everything I did—every move, every kill, every decision—was tied to one reason alone: keeping Ethan safe. He was all that mattered. His survival was the only thing that made sense in this unrelenting world.
Somewhere along the way, between the missions and the sacrifices, I fell in love with him. Not in the way stories tell it, not with the softness and ease that others might have known. My love was quiet, buried beneath layers of duty and silence, shaped by a life that had never allowed me to dream.
But he was mine in the only way I knew how to keep someone—through protection, through distance, through the unspoken certainty that I would always choose him above all else.
Even if he never knew. Even if he never remembered.
He had my heart.
And I had my purpose.