By the third day back at the Network, I'd officially graduated from "Oh my God, Julia's here??" to "Hey, Julia, can you hand me that?" Which, honestly, was a relief. The wide eyes, the hushed whispers, the people pretending not to stare but very obviously staring—it was all starting to make me feel like I was a celebrity ghost. Or a walking cautionary tale. Or both. Neither label was particularly flattering, especially when all I wanted to do was exist without people acting like I might combust at any second.
Not that I was doing anything remotely combustion-worthy.
Julian still wouldn't let me train.
Every time I so much as glanced in the direction of the sparring rooms, he would materialize out of thin air like some kind of unnervingly attractive psychic security camera. It didn't matter if he was supposed to be in an entirely different wing of the building—he knew. He always knew.
"Eyes on the floor," he'd say, one brow quirked and arms crossed in that infuriatingly calm way.
