Sleep is for people who don't have Riley's threats playing on repeat in their heads like some kind of psychological torture soundtrack.
"You think this is a game? The committee finds out, you're done. Out of Olympic contention so fast they won't even spell your name right on the termination letter."
That line's burned into my brain like a fucking brand, ticking away like a countdown clock to disaster I can see coming but can't prevent.
I'm sitting in the empty locker room long after lights-out, elbows on knees, staring at tile patterns like they might spell out some miraculous solution.
If I back off now, George runs Sienna straight into the ground. If I step in again, the committee tosses me out without blinking—and she loses the only person still fighting for her.
No matter what I choose, someone gets destroyed.
By morning, the gym feels like a goddamn war zone.
George storms in like he never left, barking orders before the clock hits eight because apparently psychological terrorism has no business hours.
"Why is floor warm-up dragging?" he snaps from across the mats.
Sienna doesn't even flinch. "On it."
Already moving into position like a good little soldier.
Ten minutes in, he's picking her apart with surgical precision, jabbing at every movement she makes.
"You're slower this week."
"I'll tighten it," she says without hesitation, adjusting stance like he's reprogramming her in real time.
He circles her like a predator looking for fresh meat to tear into. "No more protein shakes. Raw greens only until further notice. You're not sculpted enough for floor cameras."
My blood turns to fucking lava.
Jaw locks, hands tightening into fists I keep superglued to my sides. Can't say a word. Not after the committee's muzzle job. I'm on thinner ice than the Titanic, silent and completely neutered unless specifically spoken to.
Sienna doesn't argue. Doesn't even blink. Just resets her form and starts again like dietary restrictions are totally normal coaching feedback.
By midday, I'm cataloging the signs of systematic destruction.
Footwork slipping. Landings off. She skips cooldown stretches, too focused on keeping pace with George's impossible standards. The fire she usually carries? Gone. Replaced by muscle memory and sheer stubborn will.
She looks like she's just surviving instead of thriving.
I catch up with her at the water station, watching her lean against the cooler like she doesn't trust her legs to hold her upright much longer.
"How's the ankle?" I ask, trying for casual instead of desperately concerned.
"Fine." Too fast to believe, too sharp to be true.
"You're pushing too hard."
She takes a sip, won't meet my eyes. "I have to."
"Sienna," I say quietly, stepping closer. "This doesn't end with you winning anything if you're completely wrecked before you get there."
Finally looks up. "I can't let him win, Ford."
Voice drops, firm but steady. "This isn't about him. It's about you. Your body. Your health. Your future."
"I know what I'm doing," she says, barely above a whisper.
Then walks away before I can call bullshit on that statement.
But she doesn't know. Not really. She's operating on survival mode and George's psychological programming.
Later that afternoon, George has her run an intensive floor pass she's already nailed twice. I expect her to push back, say she's done enough.
She doesn't.
"Again," George barks. "Stick the landing this time. No bounce. You're not auditioning for fucking cheer squad."
She doesn't say a word. Just resets and takes off running like a machine executing commands.
Her form is perfect at takeoff—clean, strong, technically flawless.
But the second her foot makes contact with the mat, everything collapses.
Her ankle gives out mid-landing. The snap echoes across the gym before the rest of her even hits the ground.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't make a sound. Just hits the mat like something lifeless, impact sharp and brutal enough to make my stomach drop into hell.
The whole gym freezes like someone paused reality.
I'm running before anyone else moves, hitting my knees beside her with heart racing and hands shaking more than I want them to.
"Sienna!" Already reaching for her without touching the ankle, scanning her face for signs of consciousness.
She's curled in on herself, clutching the joint like she can hold it together through pure force of will. Skin gone pale as paper, breathing like it hurts just to stay awake.
"I'm okay," she mumbles, voice barely there.
"No, you're fucking not," I say firmly, trying to keep calm while every alarm in my system is blaring code red.
George arrives a second later, standing over us with zero urgency like this is a minor inconvenience instead of a career-ending injury.
"She'll be fine," he says, waving down the medic like this is a scraped knee at summer camp. "Just mental fatigue."
I don't respond because if I open my mouth right now, I'll say something that gets me banned from every gymnasium in America.
My hands stay on her shoulder, steadying her, even though all I want to do is turn around and introduce George's face to my fist at high velocity.
Around us, voices start rising. Someone shouts for medical staff. Team scrambles. I can't hear it clearly over the roar of rage in my ears.
All I can see is her.
All I can think is: this never should've happened.