Silence still lingered like a ghost when Celina opened her eyes. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, but there were no more sobs—only the bitter taste of humiliation, pain, and injustice. Her body, crumpled on the floor, no longer felt like her own—as if she had stopped being a victim and had begun to become something new, something still being forged.

With a sudden motion, she pushed herself up. Her knees trembled, but she did not falter. She wiped her face with both hands, scrubbing the tears away as if she could erase the last fragments of fragility with them.

“Celina, this isn’t the time to cry. This isn’t the time for sentiment. This is the time to think.”

The words escaped her lips like a decree. Each syllable hammered down against the chaos still threatening to consume her. It was as if she had put on an invisible armor—made of pain, clarity, and determination. Her feelings, once raw and exposed, were now buried deep, sealed beneath layers of icy resolve. A strength she had never k