Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 33: Grrrrrrrrr~~~~~~~~~~

Grrrrrrrrr~~~~~~~~~~

Her stomach growled again—louder, sharper, a snarl that twisted her guts—and her foot tapped the floor, a slow, deliberate rhythm against the cold tiles, the only sound she'd allow herself to make.

She swore it then, silent but fierce: Next time I see him, he's dead.

Powers or not, I'll snap his neck, crush his throat, watch his eyes go dark. The thought pulsed hot, her hatred for heroes flaring brighter—Kael just another smug face in a long line she'd vowed to erase.

But she stayed still, back straight, expression carved from stone, letting the anger simmer quiet. Nothing broke her—not hunger, not boredom, not this cage. She was Freya, and she'd outlast him, outlast them all.

That morning, she'd heard it—chaos spilling through the walls, Rhea's yells sharp and wild, thuds rattling the frame like something was breaking apart.

Freya hadn't moved, hadn't flinched, hadn't cared. She'd sat on her cot, legs crossed, staring at the door as if it might dare open, her mind far from whatever tantrum Rhea threw. Breakfast never came after—hours ticked by, unmarked in a room with no windows, just a bulb, a bed, a cramped bathroom, and the clothes on her back, stiff and worn from days unwashed.

Her stomach kept up its grumbling, a relentless drumbeat, and she shifted, leaning back against the wall, the chill seeping through her shirt as she glared at the locked door.

I was wrong, prison's better than this shithole, she thought, a bitter smirk tugging her lips.

At least there, she'd have a schedule—food, air, something to mark the time. Here, she was starving, bored to death, trapped in a box with nothing but her own defiance.

Hours dragged—how many, she couldn't tell, the light never shifting—and the hunger clawed deeper, a hollow ache that gnawed at her ribs, her pride the only thing keeping her upright.

She wanted to pound the door, scream Kael's name until her throat bled, demand he face her. But she didn't. Her hands stayed still, folded tight, her foot tapping that slow beat, her silence a shield.

She wouldn't go back—not to the weak girl she'd been, the one who'd let everyone walk over her, who'd lived for others' nods and scraps.

Back then, she'd been tall but spineless—classmates barking orders, neighbors sneering, even kids half her size bossing her around like she was nothing. Her self-respect had dangled by a thread, pride a ghost she couldn't grasp, her life a blur of bending to whoever shouted loudest.

She'd hated it—hated them, hated herself—until that day, the one that flipped her world and froze it solid.

It hit her now, sharp and vivid, the memory slicing through the hunger's fog like a blade through flesh. Freya's stomach snarled again—low, insistent, a beast clawing at her ribs—but the sound faded as her mind plunged back, dragging her to that alley, that day, sixteen years old and trembling.

She'd been lanky then—too tall, too thin—her platinum-cyan hair a tangled mess down her back, her blue eyes wide and darting as a pack of kids circled her, their laughter grating loud in the narrow space.

The alley stank of piss and rotting trash, walls looming close, graffiti smeared like blood over cracked brick. They'd shoved her—small hands, sharp elbows—mocking her silence, her stillness, demanding she fetch their damn ball like some trained mutt, the rubber sphere bouncing just out of reach where they'd kicked it past her.

Her hands had shook, fingers twisting into her worn sweater, her voice lost somewhere deep where she couldn't find it.

"Get it, freak," one sneered—short, freckled, his grin a jagged slash—while another, a girl with braids, shoved her shoulder hard, cackling as Freya stumbled, her knee scraping pavement. "What's wrong, too dumb to move?"

The words stung, familiar—classmates, neighbors, even kids younger than her had barked at her for years, their voices a chorus she'd drowned in since she could walk. She'd been their shadow—fetching, bowing, shrinking—her self-respect a threadbare rag, her pride a whisper she couldn't hear over their noise.

She'd hated it, hated them, but most of all hated herself—weak, dependent, a puppet jerking to their strings.

That day, though, something snapped—deep, cold, primal—and her breath hitched, a shiver ripping through her as frost spilled from her fingertips without warning, unasked, alive.

The air turned brittle fast, a chill snapping sharp around her, and she gasped, watching white tendrils curl from her hands, crackling as they hit the ground.

Ice surged—fast, relentless—spreading over the pavement in jagged veins, climbing their legs like vines of glass, locking them mid-laugh, mid-shove.

Their screams choked off—high, panicked—cut short as frost swallowed their knees, their waists, their chests, sealing them in place.

Freya staggered back, boots slipping on the slick, her heart pounding wild, a drumbeat shaking her ribs as their faces twisted—fear flashing bright, then fading blank—their eyes glazing over, their breaths puffing white then stopping altogether.

She'd watched, wide-eyed, frozen herself for a heartbeat, as their heartbeats faded slow under her grip—not her hands, but her will, her power—a new high rushing through her veins, electric and raw.

The freckled boy's sneer locked solid, the girl's braids stiff with ice, their bodies statues in a tableau of her making. When they stopped moving—five of them, still as death—she stepped close, boots crunching loud on the frost, gawking at their still forms, their glassy stares, and laughed.

It tore free—raw, jagged, a sound that scraped her throat and echoed off the walls, wilder than their taunts had ever been.

She crouched low, staring into the boy's dead face, her breath fogging white in the chill as she spat, "Cowards," voice shaking with fury and awe. "I was scared of you? Begging for your damn approval when you're this weak?"

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