Chapter 3 - Ghosts of Astoria|
Her words echoed through the silent ballroom, burning my ears.
"People like you should be grateful we even let you inside places like this," Victoria sneered, stepping closer until the hem of her ruined gown touched my shoes. "You're dirt. You dress in rags, clean up our garbage, and think you have a right to speak to me?"
I kept my hands folded against my knees, my head lowered, but inside my chest, a memory unlocked itself like an old rusty door.
Six years ago. A narrow, concrete alleyway in Astoria, Queens.
The smell of damp damp brick and early autumn leaves.
My father, Miguel Reyes, stood across from me in a simple white cotton shirt, holding two wooden practice sticks. He was a quiet man who worked as an appliance repairman during the day, but at dawn, he was something entirely different.
He was the last master of the Quiet Current—a forgotten, defensive martial discipline handed down through generations of our family from the Philippines.
"Again, Sophia," he would say, his voice calm as a mountain lake as I swung at him with all my strength.
"I'm too slow, Papa!" I had yelled, wiped sweat from my forehead. "I want to be fast like you!"
He had lowered his sticks and walked over, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Speed comes after control, mija," he said gently. "Anger makes you loud. Strength is quiet. Real power never needs applause, and it never seeks a fight."
For ten years, he taught me how to redirect energy, how to read a person's balance before they even moved, and how to neutralize violence without causing harm.
Then came that rainy night in November.
My father was walking home from the subway when he saw a young man cornered in an alley by a mugger holding a switchblade. My father didn't hesitate. He stepped between the blade and the boy, disarming the attacker with three fluid movements.
The boy ran away safely. But the attacker had a hidden companion in the shadows.
My father came home bleeding. Two days later, his heart stopped in an ICU room that smelled of bleach.
His last words to me were burned into my soul: “I taught you to protect life, Sophia. Never let anger turn it into something ugly.”
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After his funeral, I put his practice sticks away, wrapped them in an old wool blanket, and locked them in the bottom of my closet. I swore I would never use the Quiet Current again.
Until Victoria Lane pushed me.
