"Damien!"
The voice didn't come from the field.
It came from the sideline—rising above the gasps and mutters of the crowd. Sharper. Familiar.
Isabelle.
Class rep.
She was already moving, her neat blazer abandoned, shoes pounding lightly across the turf as she cut through the chaos. Her black hair, always clipped back with that same silver pin, fluttered behind her, and her brown eyes—usually so calm, so collected—were hard now. Focused.
She knelt beside him in a heartbeat, her hand hovering at his shoulder, not touching but close.
"Are you okay?"
Damien exhaled, a slow breath pressed through gritted teeth. He shifted, testing his weight, then sat up fully. His leg screamed at the movement, but he didn't flinch.
His voice, when it came, was calm. Almost cold.
"I'm fine."
Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. "You're bleeding."
"Still fine."
And he was.
Because pain like this? This wasn't new.
He'd trained through worse.
