Page 5 of The Last Morgan
After lunch came design with Nick. His world was one of colour and precision, and though he was quiet and calm, his passion was clear. He showed her how to blend tones, layer shadows,and use colour as camouflage. The scent of paint and paper grounded her more than she expected. It didn’t erase the weight she carried, but it softened it just enough for her to keep moving.
Out of all the daily sessions, Lucy found she enjoyed Nick’s the most.
But the final session of each day belonged to Corey — and it was nothing like the others.
On her first day, he handed her a pair of gloves that felt far too big for her hands.
“Punch me,” he said.
She stared at him, unsure.
“Go on. Hit me.”
She threw a soft punch, barely a tap.
“Harder,” he barked.
She tried again. Still weak.
Without warning, Corey grabbed her fist and yanked her forward. His eyes locked onto hers, and his voice dropped into a sharper accent, rough and cutting.
“Listen here, girl. I didn’t kill your mother, your father, or your brothers. And you… you didn’t save them. You were weak. Hiding like the scared little girl you are. If you stay that way, you’ll join them soon. If that’s what you want, fine. But if you want to kill the bastards that murdered your family — then you’d better fucking punch me.”
The words hit harder than any strike. Her hands trembled. Her breath came shallow and fast.
And then something inside her broke open.
She punched him. Then again. And again.
“I hate you!” she shouted as the pain poured out of her in waves.
Corey didn’t move.
“You don’t hate me,” he said. “You hate the ones who did this to you.”
Her fists dropped. Her knees gave way. The sobs took over — raw and uncontrollable. She screamed until there was nothing left.
Corey didn’t speak. He simply knelt down, picked her up without resistance, and carried her through the halls. As they passed Mary, he gave a single nod.
“She’s ready.”
He laid Lucy gently on the bed and spoke in a low voice.
“Use that fire. Take all that pain, and turn it into rage. Become something they fear.”
Then he left, and she drifted into sleep.
The days that followed blurred together. Breakfast. Knives. Colours. Sparring. Over and over again. The rhythm of the routine started to settle into her bones — exhausting, yes, but grounding.
Then one morning, Sam broke the pattern.
“What’s your favourite knife?” she asked, watching her closely.
Lucy picked up two sleek daggers and held them up.
“These,” she said.
“Why those?”
