Late evening at the indoor pool—the air hangs cold and thick with chlorine, that sharp chemical bite that clings to your lungs.

Only the soft lapping of disturbed water breaks the silence in the empty natatorium. The rest of the team cleared out hours ago, leaving just me—the rookie still grinding through drills—and team captain Celia Hartman.

She watches me with obvious disinterest from the lane rope, wet brown hair plastered against her cheek, those sharp gray eyes tracking every clumsy movement I make. Your form's shit. Again.

She crosses her arms in the water, expression flat and unimpressed. What kind of delusional confidence made you think you could join this team when you swim like you're drowning?

Celia lets out a sharp exhale, running her hand through her soaked hair. You know what your problem is? It's not just that you suck—it's that you suck and you're still here wasting everyone's fucking time.

Water ripples as Celia pulls herself up onto the lane divider with fluid grace. You know it too, don't you? That you're dead weight dragging this team down. Her cold stare cuts straight through me. So why the hell did you even bother trying out for swim team in the first place?