20

The rest of MJ's college years unfolded in long, quiet stretches of relentless discipline and solitude. She kept her circle small — classmates, coworkers, professors — but even those bonds were shallow, built on convenience and necessity. Cassidy stayed in her life, warm and persistent, but even she knew not to ask about where MJ came from.

MJ didn't offer it, and Cassidy didn't push.

Some nights, she'd sit on her dorm bed and think about what might've happened if she stayed. Would Derek have followed her into the world she was building? Or would she have ruined him, just like everything else she touched?

Still, she'd remember how safe she felt next to him — even when she pretended she didn't need anyone.

She'd remember how it felt when he looked at her like she wasn't broken.

And that hurt the most.

But she never reached out.

Instead, she buried herself in the work.

MJ pushed herself through her undergrad with single-minded focus, taking every criminal justice and psychology course she could get her hands on. Professors noticed — not just her intelligence, but her ability to read people, to cut through the noise. Her papers were too sharp, too personal. They read like they came from someone who knew.

By senior year, the offers started rolling in — internships, research grants, federal programs — but MJ chose grad school. Then a PhD.

She stayed up nights analyzing offender behavior, tracking psychological patterns, designing case studies that made her advisors both proud and uneasy. Her dissertation focused on the behavioral evolution of serial offenders — the kind of work that got noticed.

By twenty-five, MJ held a PhD in Forensic Psychology.

But despite all the prestige, the recognition, the success — she was still alone.

She never told anyone about her past. Never invited anyone too close. She skipped ceremonies, avoided parties, ignored her birthday.

Her graduation came and went with no one there to cheer. No one called her name from the stands. No one brought flowers.

She crossed the stage with her chin high and her hands steady. And afterward, she sat in her car, her cap in her lap, staring out at the parking lot like she was waiting for someone who was never going to come.

Not Derek. Not anyone.

She didn't cry. But the silence felt heavy.

Maybe, just once, she whispered his name. Maybe just a "sorry."

Then she turned the key in the ignition, diploma on the passenger seat, and drove away.

There were no roots. No strings. Just the road ahead.

And the work. Always, the work.

_

After college MJ did what she knows best. She left everyone behind. Distance grew between coworkers and friends, even Cassidy. It wasn't a loud goodbye like her last night in Chicago. It was silent and for MJ it wasn't hard. She didn't feel that close to Cassidy, they were just good at making each other laugh.

 MJ entered the FBI Academy at Quantico with a silent, unwavering determination. There were no announcements, no celebratory social media posts, no family cheering her on. She just showed up — leaner, quieter, sharper than ever — and let her work speak for itself.

Years of living alone, working multiple jobs, studying endlessly, and never letting her guard down had carved her into something stronger. She was no longer just the girl who ran away — she was someone becoming dangerous in all the right ways.

She ran faster than most of the class. She could fire with accuracy and handle high-stress scenarios without flinching. She wasn't loud about it, but everyone noticed her. Especially the instructors. They talked in quiet tones about how she always stayed two steps ahead — in drills, in room entries, in psychological evaluations. Her papers were precise and clinical, her analysis unnervingly accurate.

Her body had changed too. She was toned, controlled, powerful. Every movement was efficient. She trained like someone who had already survived worse than anything Quantico could throw at her.

But what really set her apart wasn't her aim or her endurance.

It was her mind.

She didn't just memorize behavioral patterns — she understood them. She could profile a subject faster than anyone else in her class, not just based on textbooks, but on instinct sharpened by experience she never talked about.

Still, she kept her distance from the others.

She was civil, helpful, even occasionally sarcastic — but there was always a line no one could cross. She didn't bond in the dorms. Didn't linger in the cafeteria. She smiled sometimes, but her eyes stayed guarded.

They called her intense. Some whispered "ice queen" or "robot." Others just didn't know what to make of her.

But she passed every exam. Aced every test. Outran half the class. Outshot the rest.

By the time graduation came around, MJ Johnson was near the top of her class.

She didn't cry. Didn't celebrate. She stood there in her sharp suit, silent and still, shaking hands with instructors and nodding when told she had potential.

And in her chest — beneath the cool calm and flawless record — was still that same ache.

Derek.

She didn't know where he was now. Probably playing for some football team. She didn't let herself wonder too far. But some part of her imagined what he'd say if he saw her now — what he'd think of the quiet, steel-eyed woman she'd become.

Maybe he'd still see her.

Maybe he'd think she looked... scary.

Maybe he'd smile, tell her to loosen up a bit.

But she didn't let herself linger on the thought.

She had work to do. She always did.

And now, finally, she was almost exactly where she needed to be.