People always said that strength was a blessing.
They were wrong.
Strength was a verdict.
Ami remembered the first time someone had looked at her with fear instead of admiration.
She had been sixteen.
The mission itself was nothing special—yellow zone, routine extermination, a newly formed squad meant to gain experience under supervision. She had been assigned as their core fighter, the one meant to hold the line if things went wrong.
Things always went wrong.
She still remembered their faces. Too clearly.
The boy who laughed too loudly before entering the zone, trying to hide his shaking hands.
The girl who kept glancing at Ami with open awe, whispering, "So that's her…"
The leader who spoke confidently, even though his sword grip was wrong from the start.
They didn't come back.
Only she did.
That had been the first time the whispers began.
Ami walked through the dimly lit corridor of the bunker, her boots echoing softly against the metal floor. The lights above flickered faintly—old infrastructure, barely holding together after years of constant emergency use.
People stepped aside when they noticed her.
Some did it instinctively.
Some did it consciously.
Some pretended not to notice her at all.
She didn't look at them.
She never did.
Because she already knew what she would see.
Fear. Unease. Suspicion.
Respect, twisted into something uglier.
"She's strong."
"Too strong."
"Everyone around her dies."
Ami clenched her fist slightly, feeling the familiar tension travel up her arm.
She had heard it all before.
She had grown up in wealth. Not the shallow kind that came from money alone, but the deep-rooted privilege of lineage.
Her family name carried weight.
Generations of monster slayers.
Veterans.
Commanders.
People who had bled in zones darker than most civilians could even imagine.
Her childhood home was large, quiet, and merciless.
Failure was not punished—but it was remembered.
Fear was not forbidden—but it was corrected.
From the moment she could hold a weapon, she was trained.
Not because she wanted to be.
But because it was expected.
"You have talent," her instructor had told her once.
Not potential.
Not promise.
Talent.
As if it were a fact carved into her bones.
And she believed him.
She trained harder than anyone else.
She learned faster.
She endured more.
She didn't hate it.
At first.
The problem wasn't that she survived.
The problem was that she always survived alone.
Every squad she joined suffered losses. Severe ones.
Sometimes it was panic.
Sometimes hesitation.
Sometimes overconfidence.
Sometimes it was just bad luck.
But patterns didn't care about reasons.
Patterns only cared about results.
And the result was always the same.
One survivor.
Her.
At first, people treated her like a tragic hero.
"She must carry so much pain…"
"It's amazing she can still fight."
"She's sacrificing everything."
Ami had almost believed that version.
Almost.
Then the tone changed.
Gradually.
Quietly.
"She doesn't retreat when others do."
"She doesn't scream for help."
"She watches people die and doesn't even flinch."
Someone once laughed nervously and said:
"Maybe monsters are scared of her too."
That was the day she stopped listening.
The worst rumors came later.
Whispered behind reinforced doors.
Murmured in medical wards.
Exchanged between rookies who didn't know any better.
"She abandons them."
"She uses them as bait."
"Maybe she wants to be the only one who comes back."
Once, she heard the ugliest one of all.
"What if she's the reason they die?"
Ami stopped walking.
The corridor was empty now, stretching forward like a throat swallowing her whole.
For a moment, she felt something tighten in her chest.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Doubt.
She had asked herself that question more times than she could count.
Not because she believed it.
But because she was tired of being the only constant in every massacre.
If everyone else changed—
different teams, different leaders, different zones—
Then what did that make her?
Her mind drifted back to earlier that day.
To the battlefield.
To the boy who froze.
His eyes had gone empty.
His breathing had broken.
His body had refused to move.
Ami had seen that look before.
Too many times.
That was why she had hit him.
Not out of cruelty.
Not out of anger.
But out of instinct.
Because she knew what came next.
If someone froze, they didn't just die.
They dragged others with them.
When she struck him, she had felt the faint resistance of bone beneath skin.
He hadn't even tried to defend himself.
For a split second, she had wondered—
Would he break?
He didn't.
But he didn't fight either.
And that terrified her more than screaming ever could.
"Pathetic."
The word had left her mouth before she could stop it.
She had meant it.
And she had hated herself for meaning it.
Ami resumed walking.
Her steps were slower now.
He had looked at her with something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
But disappointment.
Not in her.
In himself.
That look haunted her more than any accusation ever could.
She reached the deeper levels of the bunker, where fewer people walked and fewer lights worked. This was where veterans passed through. Where rumors were born and buried.
She leaned against the cold metal wall, letting out a slow breath.
Her hands were shaking.
She hated that.
She had never asked for companionship.
Never sought friendship.
Every time she did, someone died.
That was the rule she lived by.
If you kept people at a distance, you didn't have to bury them.
Yet, somehow, the boy had slipped past that distance without even trying.
Not because he was strong.
But because he was honest.
"I thought I had become stronger."
She remembered the way his voice had wavered when he spoke those words.
She had heard similar lines before.
But never with that kind of clarity.
He wasn't boasting.
He was mourning something he hadn't yet lost.
Ami pushed herself off the wall.
She couldn't afford this.
Thinking led to hesitation.
Hesitation led to death.
That was the truth of their world.
Still—
As she continued down the corridor, people continued to part before her.
Some bowed slightly.
Some looked away.
Some whispered.
She heard none of it clearly.
And yet, every word reached her.
She was strong.
She was feared.
She was alone.
At the end of the corridor, she stopped again.
The reflection in the reinforced glass showed a familiar figure.
Straight posture.
Unshaken gaze.
Expressionless face.
The mask everyone believed in.
Slowly, she raised a hand and placed it against the glass.
Her reflection did the same.
For a brief moment, she wondered—
If I disappeared tomorrow…
Would anyone grieve?
The answer came immediately.
No.
They would feel relieved.
Ami lowered her hand.
She turned away from the reflection and walked deeper into the bunker, her steps steady once more.
Tomorrow, she would lead them again.
Tomorrow, more people might die.
Tomorrow, she would survive.
Because that was what she did best.
The strongest in the division.
And always the one who returns alone.