There was just something about this day that got Tiffany's hackles up.

  And, of course, it only got worse.

  She hadn't even made it to her mould-ridden, dilapidated hovel before another irritation made itself known. Her least favourite person was ambling down the street toward her, stupidly trying to wave her down.

  "Ah, Tiffany, just the person I wanted to see." Tiffany rolled her eyes as the elderly man shuffled closer, his enormous, bushy ginger mustache bouncing with every step. "I had the loveliest encounter earlier today," He continued, beaming. "An encounter with a most extraordinary creature!"

  "Go die." Tiffany spat back bitterly at the jovial man, then hunched over and retched into her bucket.

  The man whose smile remained untested by Tiffany's hate clapped his hands together, releasing a piercing sound that stung Tiffany's throbbing skull. "Not even your repugnant attitude can sour this day, Tiffany," he declared. "Because a wondrous opportunity has opened up for you! You can finally leave this little village and—"

  "No." Tiffany walked straight past him.

  The man turned, still grinning. "But you haven't even heard—"

  "Whatever dumb idea you have this time, Care: no."

  The old man hurried to follow her, the rapid thump of his tiny steps trying to keep pace with her vastly younger and spry pace gnawed at her migraine.

  "Don't be so dismissive, Tiffany," Care called out, his voice high and insistent. "Even someone as perversive as you must have some interest in The Tournament?"

  Tiffany stopped dead in her tracks, her frustration flaring. She whirled around on her heels, snapping back at the elderly man. "How do you even know about that already?!"

  Care's smile only widened, a maddening grin that made her blood boil. "Oh, so you have met the creature as well! Isn't it wonderful?"

  Tiffany got a sour taste in her mouth, and it wasn't from the residual vomit. "I'm not going."

  Care's shoulders slumped further than their usual poor posture demanded, a tired sigh escaping his lips. It seemed like every favor, every good deed, turned into an uphill battle when done for her. "But Tiffany, this is your second chance! Ersatz University may not have accepted you, but—"

  "I didn't accept Ersatz University!" Tiffany's teenage voice cracked hoarsely, the words sharp with raw rejection. "They would have been a waste of time, wouldn't know magic if it struck them in the face!"

  "Oh please, Tiffany," Care chuckled, his voice full of that patronizing tone that grated against her soul. "You may fool those morons you call friends, but don't try to pull wool over my eyes. You sabotaged that interview because you were afraid of getting rejected."

  Suddenly, without warning, every muscle in Care's body froze; Tiffany's vomit-ridden bucket hung perfectly still in the air behind her, and an invisible force crashed into him, smashing him against the nearby wall with a sickening thud. Tiffany was on him in an instant, her fury burning so hot it could melt the summer day itself.

  Her voice was a hiss of venom as she threw a pointed finger at his trembling form. "I was not afraid!"

  Despite the danger he found himself in, Care remained perfectly calm. He had long since adapted to the calamitous threats of Tiffany's rage. "Just like how you aren't afraid of losing at The Tournament?"

  Tiffany's grip closed around the old man's wrinkled throat before she even registered the motion. Her fingers twitched, barely restraining the urge to squeeze. To feel him struggle. To dominate him as she knew she could.

  "I could wipe the competition clean if I wanted," she snarled, her voice a barely restrained growl. "I could crush them as easily as the ignoramuses at the University. They're all just a bunch of overhyped clowns."

  But even with her hand wrapped around his throat, Care's damnable expression remained the same—unshaken, unmoved, unbothered. Smug eyes bore into her, that insufferable knowing gleam making her stomach churn with something that felt too much like doubt. He wasn't afraid of her. He never was.

  "Then prove it."

  She hated it. She hated him.

  Care was an incessant thorn in her side, an annoyance that refused to be removed no matter how much she pushed, screamed, threatened. Everyone else she knew either revered or hated her, oftentimes they would do both; she was comfortable with that. But Care only ever pitied her, saw her as a weak child in need of guidance, and she hated that even more. "I don't have to prove anything to you!"

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  He snorted a soft chuckle, utterly unshaken by the furious girl looming over him. "No, you've long since given up on that. But you do have something to prove. I know your secret." His voice softened, but that only made the words cut deeper. "You're just a scared little kid—just like the rest of them."

  Tiffany's body lurched before her rage could even form a response. Another violent wave of bile forced itself up her throat, spilling messily over Care's trapped body. The spew soaked into his robes, seeping into his mustache. His nose wrinkled at the smell, but his gaze never wavered.

  Tiffany wiped her mouth, "You better shut your—" she spat out an uncomfortable morsel of undigested meat, "—mouth before you say something you can't take back."

  The smugness fell from the man's eyes. The girl in front of him, no matter how hard she tried, could never be threatening; she was simply tragic. "But you don't have to be scared. If you just let go of your ego for a second and let others help, then you could become someone amazing! You're smart Tiffany, and talented, but you have a terrible attitude."

  Her hand tightened against his throat, silently urging him to stop speaking. But Care didn't yield. Even as his voice strained, rasping from the pressure, he pressed on. "This Tournament will be a great experience to finally surround yourself with people who aren't so… simple. "

  Tiffany's lip curled. "Well, sorry to break it to you," she sneered, "but when that Tournament is happening or whatever, I'll be here—with the simpletons."

  She let go. The invisible force pinning him to the wall vanished, and Care's frail body crashed onto the hard ground. His limbs folded awkwardly beneath him, a sharp wheeze tearing from his throat as the impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

  Tiffany laughed. A harsh, mean little thing. "You're pathetic." She loomed over him, savouring the way his withered face twisted with pain. "Why don't you stop trying to force other people to live the dream you were too weak to accomplish?"

  For a fleeting second, Care's expression cracked. That subtle wince of pain—real pain—was like a victory. She grabbed her floating bucket from the air, turning away, shoulders squared in triumph.

  But Care wasn't finished.

  "Like I said, Tiffany." His voice was steady despite his battered body. "I know all your secrets."

  Tiffany slowed.

  "I know that the one thing you care more about than being powerful… is people believing that you are powerful."

  She scoffed at the man's feeble attempt at an insult. "People think I am powerful because I AM powerful."

  She turned to see the man's disheartened face once more, but instead of defeat, he carried an unmatched mirth. "Oh, by the way, I almost forgot to mention." His voice was downright chipper. "As soon as I had heard the news, I sent a courier to inform the royal family of the incredible news that one of their citizens had been invited to The Tournament. I'm sure they are very happy to be getting the news as we speak."

  Tiffany's blood turned to fire.

  The bucket slipped from her grasp, slamming into the mud with a thud, sinking under its own weight. Her breath hitched, and then she erupted.

  "YOU DID WHAT!?"

  Care serenely stood up. He calmly dusted himself off, gingerly stretching his aching limbs as he straightened. "This will be good for you, Tiffany."

  "Who do you think you are to choose what is or isn't good for me!?" Tears blurred Tiffany's vision, hot and unchecked, burning as they trailed down her cheeks. The revelation was swimming against her dizzying head, and she felt sick in a totally new way. "Why do you keep meddling in my life, huh!?" She was shaking now, voice raw. "You think I'll put out or something, you sicko!? You think I'll take care of you in place of the children you never had, you impotent mule!? Her breath hitched. "You think you're my father or something!?"

  Sadness filled the man's eyes. It wasn't her insults that hurt his heart so much. He accepted it as a simple matter of intervening in Tiffany's life. No, it was how fragile she turned out to be that made him feel this way, this pity. It just took a single question.

  His voice was unbearably gentle. "No, Tiffany. I'm not your father." He met her gaze. "I care."

  Tiffany snapped.

  Her body moved before thought could catch up. She lunged—driving her fist straight into Care's gut, forcing the breath from his frail lungs in a painful wheeze. He crumpled, folding in on himself, and she threw the old man into the dirt.

  Her chest heaved. Her blood roared in her ears. "You've gone too far this time."

  She towered over him, her shadow swallowing his curled form. "How, after all these years, have you learnt nothing!"

  A sharp stomp—her foot pressing down, crushing against his feeble throat. She could feel the frail bones shift beneath her heel. "I've told you to leave me alone," Her voice was barely above a whisper, a frenzied hiss. "I've let your interfering slide so many times, gave you warnings."

  She pressed harder.

  "But you kept coming back."

  Through everything, it was Tiffany who showed pain and anguish in her expressions. The old man kept his firm veneer of confidence "I'm old Tiffany, you can kill me if you want. But if I die, I'll have died, ensuring you did at least one good thing with your life."

  She released him.

  Her foot lifted from his throat, and she staggered back, breath shaking as she fought to steady herself. The drugs still in her system twisted through her veins, fanning every emotion into something oversized and unbearable. She ran a trembling hand through her sweat-slicked hair, forcing herself to breathe.

  And then—

  A sharp inhale. A narrowing of her gaze.

  "No."

  Her voice was hoarse, a whisper laced with venom.

  "I won't let you die happy, you psycho."

  She straightened, rolling her shoulders back, "Fine, I'll join your stupid tournament."

  She leaned forward, the ghost of a smirk on her lips, though it held no real amusement. "But when I win The Tournament, and I get my wish granted, I'll have a wish so awful that you'll regret having ever met me!"

  The man simply smiled. "I look forward to it. Welcome to The Tournament: Craven."