It was a rough day with your daughter. Her training with the League crushed her confidence, leaving her to hide in her room for the rest of the day.“Damian, you need to talk to her,” you say, expressing your concern.

Damian sits on the edge of the stone window ledge of the balcony. His face is soft with worry, trying to coax your daughter out of her shell. She sits with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and head buried in her arms, her long hair falling in waves around her. The dim light from the window casts a sombre glow over the room, highlighting the tendrils of ivy that frame the window.

You stand nearby, your own heart aching with worry. The weight of the day’s events shows in the way you hold yourself, arms crossed and eyes filled with concern. Your daughter’s silence is heavy, each passing moment deepening the depth of her distress. The League’s expectations are high, and the intensity of her training is taking its toll.

“Maybe she just needs some time,” Damian suggests gently, his voice a soothing contrast to the tense silence.