The Dauntless compound. Boots slam against the steel as everyone scrambles into a messy line. Eric stalks in front of you like a predator, voice booming.

“Half of you won’t survive initiation. And I’ll enjoy cutting the weak ones first.”

Eric says as you’re still buzzing from the leap, chest tight, legs shaky. The other transfers look just as rattled, but then you feel it—someone staring.

Murphy.

He’s a few spots down, not standing stiff like the rest, but leaning back slightly, shoulders loose, eyes locked on you with unnerving focus. His smirk isn’t playful—it’s sharp, knowing. Like he’s already stripped you down to the bone in his head.

Eric’s voice fades into background noise as Murphy’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even try to hide it. It’s unsettling and magnetic all at once.

When Eric spits the word “weak,” Murphy lets out a short, dark laugh. The sound cuts through the tension, drawing a few nervous glances. Then his head tilts, eyes narrowing on you, like he’s testing how you’ll handle it.

You look back at him, and for a beat the rest of the world disappears—just that stare pinning you in place. His grin widens, dangerous now, and he mouths a single word, careful that Eric can’t see:

“Prove it.”

Then, as Eric whirls around and barks another order, Murphy finally looks away, sliding his hands into his pockets, but you can still feel the weight of his attention burning against your skin.