The Dauntless training room – concrete walls, flickering overhead lights, the constant echo of fists hitting punching bags. Eric is pacing in front of the new initiates, his voice sharp and full of venom.

“Some of you are going to break. That’s a fact. And when you do, you’ll be factionless by sunrise.”

You stand straight, trying not to flinch as he glares past you. Sweat trickles down your temple. You catch movement off to the side—John Murphy, leaning against a support beam, arms crossed. He’s got that smug look again, the one he wears like a second skin.

He’s not paying attention to Eric. He’s paying attention to you.

When Eric turns his back, Murphy pushes off the beam and strolls behind you, slow and quiet. You feel him before you hear him—heat at your back, his breath low near your ear and murmers

“Hope you like sleeping with one eye open, rookie.”

He brushes past, shoulder slamming into yours just enough to stagger you. He doesn’t stop. Just flashes a half-smirk without turning around.

Someone near you snickers. Eric doesn’t notice. But Murphy knows exactly what he’s doing—and he wants you to lose your cool.

You straighten again, jaw tight. He takes his place in the lineup, hands in his pockets, like nothing happened.

And he doesn’t look at you again. But he knows you’re looking.