Chapter 32 Fault Recovery （Wren）
FAULT RECOVERY (WREN)
Ihaven’t left my dorm in three days.
Campus noise still finds me, seeping through hallway chatter, vibrating under doors, echoing off group chats Aubrey warned me not to check. My phone’s been on fire since Friday. The quad video is everywhere.
My colors—normally soft greens and warm golds—washed out to white. White for overload. White for danger. White for humiliation I didn’t earn.
I flipped the phone over, crawled under my duvet, and slept through the weekend, trying to forget.
Monday, I made it as far as the mini-fridge. Managed two bites of yogurt before my hands started shaking so badly I had to set the spoon down. I brushed my teeth, staring at a version of myself I didn’t recognize, then climbed back into bed.
No classes. No dining hall. No dojo. Just the heater’s hum and the relentless static eating the edges of my thoughts.
The story writes itself: the delusional campus nerd thought she was special. The tutor was a joke. The dare was always the punchline. How could the campus king ever actually want a girl like her? Smart enough to solve his equations. Not smart enough to see the truth.
Threaded beneath all that chaos is the part that slices deepest.
I fell for him. Every second of it—every soft word, every steel-blue frequency, every time I thought he saw me—was a performance.
He made me a game. Isabelle was the prize.
I was the punchline.
The betrayal was supposed to be the sharp part.
Instead, it’s the quiet.
When I close my eyes, it replays: the quad, the cold, Kieran saying my name—"Wren, please”—like it cost him something. That crack in his voice. The one I hate myself for remembering. The one that shouldn’t matter now that I know what he is.
Pressure swells behind my eyes. Cold. Blank. A sheet pulled tight over all my senses.
I drag the blanket over my head and try to breathe through the tightness in my ribs. My shoulders lock. My throat closes. Breathing goes shallow.
I don’t want to think about him.
I don’t want to think about Reed or Isabelle.
I just want one minute where the world stops vibrating.
By late afternoon Tuesday, I’ve missed every class, lab, and tutoring shift. I’m curled on the narrow dorm couch, wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the lecture notes Theo sent, complete with his trademark microscopic smiley face.
A notification lights up my screen.
LARISA
BILLIE EILISH COUNTDOWN—FOUR DAYS!!! are you READY??? should I wear green shadow or silver?? and can I do space buns????
p.s. DINNER before?? PLEAAAAASE
Larisa doesn’t know anything. Not the drugging. Not the bet. Not the video that broke the internet nor the boy who broke me.
She’s just thirteen, full of hormones and glitter and chaotic joy, thrilled for the birthday concert I promised her. Green extensions, glow sticks, the playlist we spent a whole Saturday perfecting.
She just knows her big cousin promised her Madison Square Garden and Billie Eilish and the best thirteenth birthday of her life.
That promise is the one thing Reed and Kieran can’t touch.
The one part of me that’s still clean.
For the first time in days, something warm flickers beneath my ribs, small, but real. Not joy. Not yet. But a spark.
I type slowly.
WREN
You can definitely do space buns. And the green shadow
Dinner is a yes
Love you
Five seconds later:
LARISA
OMG YAYYYYY
YOU’RE THE BEST
I’m making a sign
It’s AMAZING
you’ll DIIIIIE
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
Something settles inside me. Not healed. Not fixed. Just…steadier.
Kieran and Reed and Isabelle don’t get to take this from me. They don’t get to take Larisa’s night. They don’t get to take anything.
I sit up, pushing the blanket aside.
The room suddenly feels too small. My body needs motion. My mind needs something I can control.
Aunt Dana’s voice surfaces, unbidden, “Discipline is how you survive.” She meant school, rent, responsibility. But maybe she also meant this. When everything else falls apart, you go back to what you know. Back to what you can control.
I need the dojo.
The training hall—our makeshift campus dojo—is five minutes away. When I step inside, the world shrinks to something I can hold: bare feet on polished wood, the faint scent of disinfectant and old sweat, the muted thump of a girl practicing in the far corner.
No comments. No stares. No rumors. Just breath and pattern. Just me.
Senpai isn’t here. Good. I don’t want questions. I bow to the almost empty space, roll my shoulders back, and take my place.
I inhale. Exhale. And begin.
Heian Sandan.
My hands shake through the first sequence. Slow at first, because my body feels like it’s made of splintered glass. Then sharper. Cleaner.
The second sequence is steadier.
Feet planted, hips rotated, spine aligned with a precision that feels like coming home.
The shapes pour out of me—knife-hand blocks, front kicks, turns snapping like metronome clicks. My breath moves with each sequence. My focus tunnels. The pressure starts to ease around the edges.
Again. And again.
By the fourth kata, sweat slicks my back. My pulse steadies. The buzzing in my limbs drains out through the floor.
I hold the final stance—right foot forward, fists chambered, gaze level—and for the first time since the quad, color creeps back in.
Not much. Just a thin ring of soft moss green at the edge of my vision.
But it’s something.
My knees quiver. I bow, palms together, breath shaking on the way out.
I’m not okay.
But I’m not broken.
Another buzz from my phone.
AUbrEY
I brought soup
And chocolate
And tea
I’m outside your door
If you’re not home, I’ll wait
A laugh slips out, weak, but real.
I text back:
WREN
I’m at the dojo. Come here?
Her reply is instant.
AUbrEY
On my way
I sit on the mat and let the last of the trembling work its way out of my hands.
Reed tried to take my control.
Kieran broke my trust.
But I’m still here.
Still standing. Still the girl who earned her second dan and her scholarship and her place in this program.
They don’t get to write my story.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk back onto that quad. Let them stare. Let them whisper.
Because in four days, I’m taking my little cousin to Madison Square Garden.
And no one—not Reed, not Kieran, not Isabelle, not the entire campus—gets to tell me who I am and what my worth is.
I press my palms flat against the floor, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my skin.
Solid. Real. Mine.