Chapter Text
The Fright Zone always felt colder when Adora wasn’t around.
Catra curled up on the edge of her bunk, knees pressed tight against her chest, fingers nervously tugging at a frayed thread in the scratchy sheets. The cramped metal walls loomed around her, shadows pooling in every corner like silent watchers. The stale air tasted faintly of recycled breath and electric ozone, prickling her skin with cold. Somewhere far off, boots clanged against the floor, a hiss of coolant pipes hissed like a ghost, and a heavy door slammed shut—each noise twisting her gut tighter. Her ears twitched, straining for the impossible: Adora’s voice, bright and stubborn as ever, cutting through the cold silence to call her name. But the silence swallowed everything. The stupid, infuriating absence. She kept expecting Adora’s voice to drift in from the corridor. Kept waiting for that stubborn, bright-eyed idiot to poke her head in and act like she hadn’t just vanished for hours.
She said she’d be back. Just a quick trip to the Whispering Woods, Catra. I’ll find the sword and be home before dinner, I promise. As if promises meant anything in the Fright Zone.
Catra’s stomach twisted. She pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing slow, fighting off the worry that gnawed at her chest. She’d tried to tell herself Adora was fine. That she always came back. That she’d never leave Catra behind—not really. But the hours ticked on, and the bunk above her stayed empty, and the promise felt like a lie.
Footsteps stopped outside her door.
Catra’s head snapped up, ears flat. She let her face settle into a scowl, claws curling into the mattress. The door slid open without warning—no knock, no pause, just a rush of cold air and the scrape of metal against metal.
Catra’s breath caught in her throat as Shadow Weaver floated into the room, crimson cloak trailing behind her, mask unreadable as ever. The faint red glow of her magic lit the edges of her fingers.
Catra didn’t move. She kept her voice flat, practiced. “Looking for something?”
Shadow Weaver ignored the question. Her gaze swept the room, lingering a second too long on the empty bunk above Catra. A cold prickle ran down Catra’s spine.
“Where is Adora?” Shadow Weaver’s words were soft, but they carried the all too familiar threat of a whip. “She’s been gone too long.”
Catra shrugged, aiming for careless. “She said she was going to check on something somewhere. She’ll be back.”
“And she didn’t mention where that happened to be?” Shadow Weaver’s voice was cold, like she was taunting Catra on purpose.
“No,” Catra lied through gritted teeth.
Shadow Weaver’s eyes narrowed. The room seemed to shrink around her. “And you let her go alone?”
“She wanted to.” Catra’s throat felt tight, but she forced herself not to look away. “She can take care of herself.”
Shadow Weaver glided closer, the air growing colder with every inch. “Don’t use that tone with me, cadet.” Catra willed herself to not flinch back as she glared down at her. “You have no right to speak to me in such a way.” She grabbed Catra’s chin, jerking it toward her. Catra winced—that was definitely going to bruise. “Now,” her voice sharpened, “I’m going to ask you again: where is Adora?”
“I don’t know,” Catra repeated, glaring up at her. She hated this feeling—that she was powerless against Shadow Weaver’s wrath.
Shadow Weaver’s grip tightened, and Catra bit her lower lip to stop from crying out. “Are you lying to me, Catra? Need I remind you what happened last time you lied to me?”
Catra shook her head, a tremor running through her despite herself, remembering that horrible day. She had only been six. After accidentally scratching Adora while playing, Shadow Weaver had banned her from having any of the ration bars served for a whole week. Catra felt she should be grateful for the less physical punishment than usual, but how was she supposed to last a whole week without any food? Shadow Weaver was crazy.
Catra had eventually broken and snuck into the kitchen late at night to grab the small scraps she’d been denied. But Shadow Weaver had found out the next day. Of course she had. When she heard some of the ration bars had been stolen, her first thought was Catra, the small child she had been starving. She didn’t even stop to consider the fact that it might have been one of the others. No, it was always her who took the punishment. Catra doubted that even if it had been one of the others, she would have been spared.
That day, Shadow had dragged her painfully by the ear to a cell designed to hold prisoners. Prisoners! She still remembered the throbbing pain as she was thrown into it, hitting her knees against the hard floor, still remembered the burning agony as Shadow Weaver forced the truth out of her. The scars on her back still hurt, even today.
“No, Shadow Weaver,” she twisted the fabric of the sheets angrily in her fingers. Oh how she wished she could scream at, defy, and hurt this woman. Hurt her like she had hurt Catra.
Shadow Weaver’s hand shot out, magic crackling along her palm. Catra flinched, breath catching in her throat. The spell hovered, humming against her skin, but didn’t strike—yet.
“I know you, Catra,” Shadow Weaver spat. “You think you’re clever. You think you can hide things from me. But you’re not as smart as you think.”
Catra’s claws dug into the mattress, but she said nothing.
“Tell me where she is,” Shadow Weaver ordered. “Now.”
Catra stared at the floor, jaw clenched. “I don’t know.”
A slap of magic hit her cheek, sharp and sudden, burning hot and cold at the same time. Catra gasped, biting back a snarl. The pain sang along her nerve endings, but she didn’t cry out. Shadow Weaver’s magic was always precise—never enough to leave a mark someone else might question, but more than enough to hurt.
Shadow Weaver leaned in, her face inches from Catra’s. “You’re lying.”
Catra glared back, defiant. “I’m not.”
Shadow Weaver’s grip tightened in the air, invisible fingers closing around Catra’s throat. It wasn’t enough to choke, not yet, but Catra could feel the promise of it, the threat in every word. “If you’re covering for her, I’ll know. I’ll drag the truth out of you myself!”
Catra wanted to spit in her face. She wanted to scream. Instead she just sat, stone-faced, refusing to give her the satisfaction.
Shadow Weaver finally let go, the magic dissipating with a final, stinging crackle. Her voice was ice cold. “If she isn’t back by nightfall, you’ll answer for it.”
Catra didn’t trust herself to speak. She stared straight ahead, refusing to blink until Shadow Weaver’s shadow slid from the room.
Minutes passed. Catra pressed a shaking hand to her throat, feeling the ghost of magic linger on her skin. She breathed deep, fighting the urge to scream or sob or both. The door was closed, but the air still felt tainted by Shadow Weaver’s presence.
She slammed her fist into the mattress, once, twice, three times—hard enough to sting. The anger was easier than the fear.
Adora, you idiot, where are you?