After considerable effort, the two of them finally squeezed through the narrow gap and left the mountains behind, stepping into the dense jungle.
They were about the same age, with similar interests—Japanese mythology, comparative religion, even the finer points of Sikh doctrine. They found they could talk about nearly anything without running out of things to say. As they moved through the trees at a swift pace, Lara's mind drifted back to the crevice—specifically to the push Bella had given her. That woman had no idea how strong she was. One shove and Lara had nearly been flattened.
Lara reached over and squeezed Bella's forearm. "Your muscle definition is incredible. How do you train?"
"I have a private facility. I do a lot of high-intensity upper-body work." Bella answered plainly, without deflection.
It wasn't unusual. She trained. Natasha trained. Barbara trained. Even Samantha—middle-aged as she was—made regular trips to the gym specifically to build muscle.
Plenty of women pursued yoga and Pilates for form and flexibility, but strength training was hardly uncommon either. Western fitness theory held that every kilogram (roughly 2.2 lbs) of muscle added to the body increased daily calorie burn by about 100 calories—a higher resting metabolism, faster fat reduction. From a long-term health standpoint, that made it more effective for women than pure cardio alone.
Practical benefits, too. More strength meant more options in daily life: dealing with a harasser, lifting a child with one arm, hauling luggage onto an overhead rack without asking for help.
The female body's lower testosterone levels made it nearly impossible to build the same bulk as men, but a woman's arms could look slender and still carry serious power. Bella could see immediately that Lara had done both forms of training—extensive conditioning and targeted muscle work—so she started walking her through her own usual routine.
They were deep into the conversation when Lara's voice suddenly dropped.
They'd been through enough together that the awkwardness of personal questions had faded. She asked carefully: "When you train that hard, for that long—how do you deal with the... physical impulses?"
It was actually a technical question, framed more precisely than it sounded. High training volume meant more oxygen in the blood, combined with the endorphin rush that came with sustained physical effort—the same cocktail that turned gym changing rooms into accidental matchmaking services. Fast connections, equally fast burnouts.
Lara studied Bella's expression with genuine curiosity. "A boyfriend? A girlfriend? Or do you just...?"
Bella tapped her lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not that desperate. I use a breathing method—a specific technique for keeping the mind settled. Humans aren't animals. Ancient thinkers recognized this problem centuries ago and developed effective ways to handle it."
She was being entirely serious. This was an area she'd spent real time on. The more someone worked with mental energy, the more turbulent their inner world tended to become. The human mind was a minefield. Actors had taken their lives in their eighties, driven into corners by thoughts that had nowhere to go. Keeping the spirit calm wasn't just meditation—it was self-preservation. Most major religious traditions demanded it of their practitioners.
Bella let the suspense build for a moment before landing the point: "I've synthesized techniques from a number of religious traditions and developed a breathing method that redirects that energy and converts it back into usable force. I've only ever taught it to my sister, Natasha. You'd be the second. Interested?"
Lara nodded immediately. This wasn't something you could just white-knuckle through—suppressing it entirely was its own kind of misery, and she had no partner and zero interest in casual hookups.
"Then I have a question for you first." Bella let the words stretch out. "Who is the most beautiful woman in the world?"
Lara stared at her. Are you still running a fever? She wanted to ask—but there was something in Bella's expression that stopped her. She was completely serious.
"You are."
"That wasn't convincing enough. One more time. This question matters."
"Fine, fine." A small cough. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world."
Bella frowned slightly. Beautiful women were always the difficult ones. Natasha had been the same way, back then. Too offhand. Too casual.
"You could be a little louder, actually. Just say what you know to be true. Is that really so hard?"
Lara looked around. There was not a single living thing in earshot. She couldn't figure out what the angle was, but saying the words cost her nothing.
She squared her posture and let it out at full volume: "YOU ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE WORLD!"
There it is.
Bella felt it immediately—her psionic energy climbing, measurably faster than before. She was satisfied.
She wasn't usually running this particular trick anymore. Her real limitation was her understanding of the world, the depth of her mind's reservoir, not its capacity. But after Calypso's ambush had left her running on empty, she needed every scrap she could reclaim. Idle recovery was still recovery.
And for someone like her, the admiration of a beautiful woman like Lara was worth a hundred ordinary compliments. With a hundred Laras standing here telling her she was gorgeous, she estimated it would take five or six hours to return to peak condition.
"Why would you actually say that out loud," Bella muttered, "when you clearly already knew it was true? You could have just... known it privately."
She kept walking. "Alright. I'll honor my side of the deal. The breathing method I'm about to teach you—if you practice it regularly, you'll be able to recover stamina while you breathe..."
She launched into it, walking Lara through the foundational technique—a method she'd assembled from scattered religious traditions across multiple cultures, refined over years of practice. Natasha was the only other person she'd ever shared it with.
She was mid-explanation, already thinking about how to casually slip in another compliment request, when her peripheral awareness snagged on something.
Eyes. From the treeline, to the right and behind them. Watching.
She spun around. Her hawk-eye vision swept the direction—not a threat signature, but a presence. She called out anyway. "Who's there? Come out."
The underbrush rustled. Bella drew the Undying Blade from its improvised sheath. Lara pulled her bowstring back.
"Lara?" A voice came from the trees. A middle-aged man pushed through—heavy stubble, a battered brown shirt, the look of someone who'd been living rough for a long time. "Is that you?"
Bella didn't recognize him immediately.
Lara did. She went still for a full three seconds.
Then: "Dad? It's me—it's Lara—"
The adventurer's eyes filled. She released the bowstring and broke into a run, throwing her arms around the man and holding on. "How did you find me? Have you been following us this whole time?"
You were shouting at the top of your lungs. Of course I heard you.
Richard Croft said nothing. He held his daughter tightly, his eyes going a little red at the edges.
Bella stood to one side and said nothing—though she was quietly working through whether this man had been close enough to hear certain things that had been said earlier, at certain volumes.