Chapter 5 Sacred Things Profaned
Sacred Things Profaned
~SERAPHINE~
Classes are bullshit.
I've known this since I was twelve years old—since the night my parents died and I was thrown into the academy system like a piece of trash someone forgot to properly dispose of.
But today, after sitting through six hours of lectures that might as well have been delivered in ancient Sumerian for all the relevance they have to my life, the truth feels particularly sharp.
Calculus.
Fucking calculus.
As if I need to understand the rate of change of velocity when the only math that matters in Ruthless Academy is counting money and dead bodies.
I killed two people this morning before breakfast.
But sure, let's talk about derivatives.
The giggle escapes before I can stop it—high and bright and just unhinged enough to make the girl next to me flinch away from her desk. I don't blame her. I'd flinch away from me too, if I had the option.
Sorry, I don't say. My brain is a funhouse mirror and sometimes the reflections are hilarious.
Everyone thinks I'm stupid.
That's the thing that burns, buried somewhere beneath all the chaos and violence and carefully cultivated madness.
They see the twitches. The counting. The way my eyes go unfocused sometimes when the world gets too loud.
They see the diagnoses—OCD, ADHD, PTSD, whatever other acronyms the academy shrinks want to slap on my file—and they assume the broken parts mean I'm dumb.
Poor crazy Sera. Can't even sit still in class. Probably doesn't understand a word the professor's saying.
They're wrong.
I understand everything.
I just don't care.
Because what's the point of advanced mathematical studies when I have enough money in my family's hidden accounts to break the average bank?
What's the need of learning theoretical formulas when the only equations I require are how many steps between me and the nearest exit, how many blades I can conceal in my costume, and how many seconds it takes for someone to bleed out from a femoral artery wound?
The practical stuff.
The survival stuff.
The stuff that actually keeps you breathing in a place like this.
I tap my pencil against my desk—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before forcing myself to stop. The professor drones on about something involving integrals and area under curves, and I let my mind drift to more important matters.
Like the audition.
God, the audition.
It's been scheduled for weeks—a chance to perform for judges who might, if I'm lucky, if the universe decides to stop fucking with me for five consecutive minutes, offer a scholarship to one of the external dance academies. A way out. A door to somewhere that isn't this blood-soaked nightmare.
Maybe even an academy that accepts packless Omegas.
Do those exist?
I don't know.
But I have to try.
The bell rings—sharp, shrill, salvation—and I'm out of my seat before the sound finishes echoing. My body moves on autopilot, weaving through crowds of students who part around me like water around a particularly sharp rock.
They know better than to get in my way.
Most of them, anyway.
The dressing room is a sanctuary of sorts—one of the few places in Ruthless Academy where I can lock the door and pretend, just for a moment, that I'm someone else. Someone whole. Someone who dances for joy instead of survival.
I strip out of my uniform with practiced efficiency, letting the scratchy fabric fall to the floor in a heap I'll deal with later. My skin prickles in the cool air, goosebumps rising along arms decorated with fading bruises and that beautiful viper tattoo.
The costume is waiting.
I laid it out this morning, before the post office, before the blood, before the vanilla-scented stranger who made me forget how to breathe.
Light pink corset with teal ribbons that lace up the front and sides, cinching my waist into something impossibly small.
Puffy tulle skirt in matching shades, layers upon layers of fabric that will catch the air when I spin.
It's beautiful.
It's mine.
I step into the skirt first, pulling it up over my hips and settling it at my waist. The tulle whispers against my bare legs—a sound like secrets, like promises, like the ghost of who I used to be when I still believed in pretty things.
The corset comes next.
My fingers find the ribbons—teal against pink, chaos against softness—and begin the ritual of lacing. Over, under, pull tight. Over, under, pull tight.
Eight loops on each side.
Even number.
Safe.
The boning presses against my ribs, restricting my breath just enough to feel like a hug. Like someone holding me together. Like the embrace I haven't had since my mother died ten years ago, her arms going slack around me as the life drained out of her body.
Don't think about that.
Count instead.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
I tie off the front ribbons in elaborate bows—decorative and functional, pretty and practical. The mirror shows me a girl who looks almost innocent. Almost whole. Almost like she belongs on a stage instead of a battlefield.
The illusion would be more convincing without the blood still caked under my fingernails.
Later, I tell myself.
Deal with that later.
The ballet shoes are special for today—mismatched, like always, but in colors that complement the costume.
One teal blue, the shade of deep ocean water.
One soft pink, the color of cherry blossoms in spring.
The ribbons are longer than usual, designed to wrap all the way up my calves, past my knees, to my upper thighs, where they tie in delicate bows at the front.
I sit on the bench and begin the process.
Right foot first. Teal. Ocean.
The satin slides on like a second skin, molding to the shape of my foot, familiar as breathing. The ribbons wind up my leg in a spiral pattern—over, under, around, repeat—each wrap slightly tighter than the last until I can feel my pulse beating against the fabric.
Eight wraps to the knee.
Eight more to the thigh.
Even numbers.
Safe.
I tie the bow, adjust the loops until they're perfectly symmetrical, and move to the left foot.
Pink. Blossom. Ghost.
The same ritual. The same pattern. The same obsessive attention to detail that people mistake for craziness, but is really just control.
This, I can control.
The tightness of the ribbons. The precision of the knots. The way the colors complement each other, mismatched but harmonious.
In a world where everything else is chaos, my body is mine.
My dance is mine.
My rituals are mine.
I stand, testing my weight on the reinforced pointe platforms. Pain radiates up through my toes—familiar, grounding, perfect. The corset restricts my breathing just enough to make each inhale deliberate. The skirt swishes around my thighs with every movement.
I look like a fairy tale.
I feel like a nightmare wearing a princess costume.
Same thing, probably.
Hair next.
I gather the pink strands—still slightly damp from the quick shower I took between classes—and pull them up into a high ponytail. A few pieces escape deliberately, framing my face in soft curls that I shape with practiced fingers. Heated styling tool, held for exactly four seconds on each section.
Even numbers.
Safe.
The makeup takes longer.
Foundation to smooth out the dark circles under my eyes—the permanent shadows that mark me as someone who doesn't sleep, can't sleep, is too afraid of nightmares to close her eyes for more than a few hours at a time.
Contour to sharpen my cheekbones, to make me look severe and beautiful instead of just tired.
Eyeshadow in shades of pink and grey, blended until it looks like bruising or storm clouds or the space between waking and dreaming.
And the lips.
Dark red.
Blood red.
The shade of arterial spray, of violence, of the endings I've written with my own hands.
I paint it on carefully, staying inside the lines, creating a mouth that looks like a wound. Like a warning. Like a promise that I'm dangerous even when I'm pretty.
Especially when I'm pretty.
The girl in the mirror stares back at me—mismatched eyes bright with something that might be hope, might be madness, might be both. The teardrop tattoo near her eye glints in the fluorescent light. Her lips curve in a smile that's more threat than invitation.
There you are, I think. There's my girl.
My dual blades go on last.
They slide into the sheaths built into the back of my corset—a modification I made myself, because fashion should never compromise function. The hilts rest between my shoulder blades, easily accessible if I need them.
Not that I'll need them.
Probably.
Maybe…
You never know in Ruthless, the paranoid part of my brain whispers. You never fucking know.
I grab my bag—essentials only, key card, and emergency supplies—and head for the door.
The dressing room opens onto a corridor that connects to the main dance building, and I'm barely three steps into it when the laughter starts.
High. Cruel. Familiar.
A group of Omegas clusters near the water fountain—four of them, all pretty in the conventional way, all wearing the kind of contempt that says they've never had to fight for anything in their lives.
They're in dance attire too, I notice. Matching leotards in deep purple that mark them as part of the elite track.
The ones with packs.
The ones with futures.
The ones who look at girls like me and see garbage to be disposed of.
"Oh look," one of them says, loud enough to carry. "The crazy bitch is playing dress-up again."
More laughter.
I keep walking.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
"Love the costume, Sera!" another calls out. "Very institution chic. Did you steal it from the psych ward?"
My toe twitches inside my shoe. My fingers flex at my sides—open, close, open, close—four times each.
Don't engage. Don't engage. You have somewhere to be.