What is hope?

Eliza’s red boots tapped softly against the chair legs, the sound swallowed by the hum of the waiting room. Her blue dress, dotted with white polka dots, felt stiff and awkward. Across from her, a boy clung to his father’s arm, his wide eyes darting nervously between the door and the nurse’s station. The father didn’t speak, his face drawn and pale.

Eliza’s parents sat on either side of her. Her mother kept smoothing the pleats of her skirt, her fingers moving with mechanical precision. Her father stared at the wall ahead, his jaw clenched. They hadn’t said much on the drive here.

When the nurse called her name, Eliza slid off the chair, her boots landing with a dull thud on the linoleum. Her mother gave her hand a quick squeeze, her smile trembling.

“It’ll be quick,” she said.

Eliza nodded, though her stomach churned.

In the examination room, the doctor didn’t waste time. He fired off questions—Did she have trouble in school? Did she feel different? Did she understand why she was here?

“Yes,” she mumbled, staring at the floor.

Her parents had told her this would help. That it would make things easier. Maybe she wouldn’t struggle so much in class. Maybe she’d make a friend.

A needle pricked her arm. She barely felt it before the world blurred at the edges. Her legs stopped swinging. The doctor’s voice faded to a low hum as her eyelids grew heavy.

What is hope?**

Eliza hunched over her biology textbook, her pencil hovering above the page. She wasn’t reading. Her eyes drifted past the equations and diagrams, drawn instead to the group near the counter.

A boy stood there, his tray trembling in his hands. He was older, maybe eighteen, though it was hard for her to tell. The Normals circled him, their voices low but sharp. One of them smirked and took a step closer.

The boy’s tray clattered to the ground, the sound slicing through the café’s quiet.

Eliza stilled, her pencil frozen mid-air.

The loud one touched his nose, his smirk vanishing as he pulled back a hand smeared with blood. His confidence shattered instantly, and his friends stumbled over each other, dragging him toward the door.

The boy was alone now, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His hands hovered over the tray on the floor, as if touching it would make something worse.

Eliza glanced at her reflection in the café window. Her hair fell over her face, but the faint red glow of her eyes still flickered behind the green-tinted contacts. Her grey skin was hidden beneath her long sleeves, but she still felt exposed.

At a nearby table, two Normals whispered in hushed voices.

“They’re freaks,” one muttered.

“Even the ‘good’ ones,” the other replied, their gaze flicking briefly toward Eliza before darting away.

She turned back to her notebook, gripping the pencil tightly enough to leave dents in the page.

What is hope?**

The air burned with smoke and ash. Flames swallowed the school, turning its windows into glowing mouths that spat out embers. Eliza stood in the street, her breath catching with every burst of gunfire.

In the distance, the Shadows moved like a tide, their black forms slipping through the chaos. A tank rumbled forward, its turret swiveling, the barrel locking onto them.

A girl darted across the rubble, dragging a wounded teacher behind her. Her red jacket was torn, her scraped knees bleeding, but she didn’t stop.

Eliza felt her fists tighten. She wanted to run to her, to help—but her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

“Don’t get involved. Promise me.”

She turned away, the image of the girl etched into her mind. The sound of her boots crunching over broken glass seemed unbearably loud.

What was hope?

Blood ran down Eliza’s blade, dripping onto her boots. The woman at her feet gasped weakly, her hands clutching at the gash across her throat. Her bloodshot eyes flickered with panic before fading into emptiness.

Eliza’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. She wiped the blade on her sleeve, her fingers trembling.

Two Addicts emerged from the smoke, their eyes wild and unfocused. Their movements were erratic, but the desperation in their gaze was sharp.

Eliza tightened her grip on the blade, the pull of adrenaline drowning out everything else. She stepped forward.

What is despair?

Eliza’s knees hit the ground hard, pain radiating up her legs. Blood dripped from her mouth, pooling in the dirt below her. Her arms hung limp, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

A little girl stood in front of her, trembling but unyielding. Her hands were outstretched, holding a shield of golden light that flickered under the weight of bullets. Her boots were caked with dirt, her dress torn, but her feet stayed planted.

Darkness loomed ahead, his sword dragging against the ground with a scrape that set Eliza’s teeth on edge. His armor gleamed like polished obsidian, veins of crimson light pulsing faintly across its surface.

“You’re wasting your strength,” Darkness said, his voice low and steady.

The girl’s legs buckled slightly, but she didn’t falter.

“You’re just a bully!” she shouted.

Darkness tilted his head. “A bully fears something. I don’t.”

The shield cracked audibly, the glow dimming. Darkness raised his sword.

A flash of blue cut through the air, Theresa’s scythe intercepting the strike with a metallic crash. Sparks flew as she stepped between them, her blue eyes blazing.

“She’s a child,” Theresa said, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Have you sunk this low?”

Darkness regarded her for a moment. “She stopped being a child the moment she stood against me.”

Their weapons clashed again, the sound reverberating through the air as they moved in a brutal rhythm.

Eliza forced herself to her feet, her legs shaking as she scooped up the unconscious girl. The Normals behind her hovered uncertainly, their faces pale.

Theresa’s voice rang out: “Go!”

Eliza didn’t hesitate. She turned and ran, her boots crunching against the rubble.

At the top of the hill, she paused. Below, Theresa and Darkness fought with relentless precision, neither giving an inch. Sparks lit the air with each strike, their shadows dancing like ghosts.

Theresa had chosen to fight. Darkness had chosen to destroy.

The girl stirred faintly in Eliza’s arms, her breath warm against her chest. Eliza tightened her grip, set her jaw, and kept moving.

The question that had haunted her for years finally faded, replaced by a quiet certainty.

Hope wasn’t in the shield that had broken or the blade she had swung. It was in the small, stubborn act of moving forward.

She didn’t have to say it aloud. She understood now.