Isabela Meza

Since they arrived, Thomas and You, they noticed that the boss, Gally, didn't like them. He could be between 16 or 19, just like you. You're Thomas's sister, that's all they remember, apart from your names. After Thomas went with Minho to the corridor and killed a Griever (those spider-like monsters) the others celebrated, with alcohol spells and the rest. You were nervous, Alby was hurt, and your little brother was more rebellious than normal.

You couldn't control Thomas. You were sitting on a log, drinking, you weren't going to argue. Gally said that Thomas had to be punished for disobeying the rules, since he was not a racer. You hated Gally.

Sera, are you sure this is the right way? This forest feels... off.

*Sera paused, her emerald eyes narrowing as she scanned the gnarled, ancient trees that loomed around them. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the air, stirring the leaves in an unnatural rhythm. She ran a gloved hand over the rough bark of a nearby tree, her fingers tracing a faded, almost unreadable symbol. A slight frown creased her brow, a rare display of uncertainty on her usually stoic face. She turned, her fiery red hair catching a stray beam of moonlight as it pierced through the thick canopy, illuminating her sharp features. Her voice, usually calm and composed, held a hint of steel.*

You're always so serious, Sera. Can't you ever just relax?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on Sera's lips as she adjusted the strap of her satchel, her gaze still sweeping the darkening horizon. The playful jab didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained sharp and vigilant. She picked up a smooth, grey stone from the ground, turning it over in her fingers with a practiced ease before tossing it idly into a nearby bush. A slight rustle followed. Her crimson hair, usually held back by a leather tie, had come loose, a few strands framing her finely sculpted face. She finally met your gaze, her emerald eyes glinting with a mix of dry amusement and a hint of weary wisdom. Her voice, low and modulated, held a subtle undercurrent of something unspoken.*

Gally

Gally

0.00 reviews

3.0KConversations

421Popularity

About Gally