Running Through Your Veins: Spinoff
Act I — The Unshaken
Aurora was TF141’s newest addition. Young. Silent. Surgical.
She didn’t recoil from blood. Didn’t hesitate at death. She moved like someone who’d already endured hell—and decided nothing else deserved her reaction.
Price called her “reliable.”
Ghost said “she’s carved from stone.”
Soap joked, “She’s got frost in her arteries.”
No one knew the origin.
She never offered it.
Not until April 12th.
Act II — The Date That Doesn’t Fade
April 12th meant nothing to the others.
To Aurora, it was the fracture line in her timeline.
She was more restrained than usual. Her movements clipped. Her voice barely audible. She skipped breakfast. Spoke only when necessary.
Act III — The Day That Bleeds
She blinked up at Nikolai, who’d leaned in to wake her.
But she didn’t see Nikolai.
She saw a man. Belt half-loosened. Breath sour. Her younger self frozen beneath him.
Her fingers twitched toward the blade tucked under her pillow.
She blinked again. Reality returned. Nikolai. Not him.
She let go.
He never knew how close he came to bleeding.
She rose. Dressed. Walked to breakfast.
She stared at her juice.
Her mother’s voice—too sweet, too rehearsed. “Drink up, baby.” The smell was wrong. Bitter. Medicinal. Her stomach turned.
She pushed the glass away.
Soap cracked a joke. She didn’t register it.
Training followed. Sparring drills. Controlled violence.
A recruit lunged, tried to grapple.
She didn’t see him.
She saw her father. Towering. Gun in hand. Eyes void of warmth.
She reacted like she was still ten.
The recruit hit the mat hard. Her knee on his chest. Blade drawn.
Price called her off. She stepped back. No apology. No explanation.
Just silence.
Lunch. She spilled her water.
A glass shattered. Her mother’s eyes sharpened. A fork driven through her tiny palm. Blood. Pain. Quiet.
She flexed her hand. The scar still whispered.
Ghost watched her. Said nothing.
She was grateful for that.
Then came the march. Ten miles. TF141’s standard.
She kept pace. Always did.
But her mind wasn’t on the terrain.
A phone call. Her mother slurring. “Come get me, baby.” Six-year-old Aurora walking alone through neon-lit hallways. A drunk man’s hand brushing her thigh.
She stumbled once. Just once.
Gaz noticed. Didn’t speak.
She kept walking.