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A U R O R A

(A year later) Eighteen-year-old

One year flew by in the moment's spur. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it the spur of the moment because there were times when time passed at a snail's pace, especially when Marco would push me to work harder every morning. To this day, I wasn't sure how I had managed to follow every letter of his instructions like an obedient protege would listen to her master.

It was unnerving—impossible every so often; yet I managed to strive through it all—bleeding, sweating, and panting. And Marco stood by my side, held me tight on occasions when my limbs failed to support me, and then helped me fight back—every step of the way.

Marco was a double-edged sword, though. But, sometimes, he could freeze the blood in my veins too. A lesson well-learned in the past year was that: he was not a man to be trifled with when fuming unless one has a death wish. But I was way past my meaningless rebellious stage, knowing very well I wouldn't win against him. Not that