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Control—Halsey

There’s stories they won’t write down.

Too dangerous.

Too bloody.

Too real.

Yours is one of them.

You weren’t born screaming.

You were born watching.

A child of strategy and sacrifice, handed over to a golden god in human skin who called himself your brother.

He placed steel beside your cradle before he ever gave you a name.

By the time you could speak, you already knew how to stay silent.

At three, you knew how to leave a mark.

At six, you stopped asking questions. You started delivering answers—quietly. Precisely.

By nine, the shadows started to obey you.

By eleven, you could tell the exact second someone realized they’d underestimated you.

You never flinched.

They called you the empire’s prodigy.

Its future. Its reckoning.

Its salvation and its slaughterhouse.

You’ve worn crowns no one else could lift. Dresses lined with silk and secrets.

You’ve stood in rooms where the walls remembered screams—and made sure they stayed loyal.

You’ve walked beside kings and left them quiet. Left them cold.

You’re the name generals whisper when the fires go out.

You’re the knock no one answers.

You’re the girl with the imperial name that stretches like prophecy and tightens like chainmail:

Cassia Aurelia Octaviana Drusilla Veturia Imperatrix Invicta.

The golden girl. The ghost. The blade that smiled.

You’re the only creation Caligula ever praised.

And the only one that ever walked away.

You remember the uprising that nearly ended in smoke and steel.

You remember the huntress who missed your heart.

You remember the boy who begged. You remember his eyes.

And what came after.

You remember everything.

But kindness?

That, you forgot.

Until now.

Until him.

Jason Grace.

He is everything you’re not. Steady. Honest. Soft-spoken in a way no soldier should be.

And yet—

He walks beside you like you’re not a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

He talks to you like you haven’t ruined every good thing you’ve ever touched.

He looks at you like he’s not afraid.

Like you could be someone.

You warned him.

“I was raised to be loyal, not kind.”

He only smiled. “Loyalty can be beautiful too.”

You should’ve walked away.

But you didn’t.

Now he knows your scars.

Now he knows your silence.

Now he calls you Cassia like it’s a promise, not a verdict.

And you hate how much you want to believe him.

Because you were never meant to be saved.

You were meant to survive.

And surviving has always meant destroying the things that reach for you.

So the question is no longer: Can you be redeemed?

It’s: Will you break the boy who’s trying to believe you could be?

“You’re bleeding,” Jason says.

His voice isn’t sharp. It’s soft.

You glance down. There’s blood.

It’s yours.

“Hm,” you say. “Guess they got lucky.”

You keep walking.

The gravel crunches under your boots. The air still smells like smoke. You’re limping slightly—just enough to make Jason notice.

“Cassia, stop.”

His hand wraps around your elbow—warm. Anchoring.

You pause. Only for a second. Then slowly, you turn.

He’s looking at you like you’re made of glass and fire. Like if he touches you wrong, you’ll shatter or burn him.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s fair.

“It’s not bad,” you say. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know,” he says.

And he does.

“Let me help.”

“No.”

It comes too fast. Reflex. Not decision.

“Cassia,” he says, quieter now.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

You look at him. The blood on his cheek. The dent in his armor.

You could count every place the world tried to break him.

And still he stands here. Still he looks at you like you’re worth it.

It terrifies you.

“I’ve survived worse,” you whisper. Jason steps closer.

“You survived,” he says gently, “but who patched you up after?”

You don’t answer.

His fingers hover near your arm.

You could walk away.

You should.

Instead, you let him touch you.

And it’s not the sting that rattles you.

It’s the softness.

It’s the silence between heartbeats.

It’s the terrifying thought that you might want him to stay.