You weren’t supposed to be here. Your own training had ended an hour ago, but you’d forgotten a water bottle. A stupid, mundane reason to walk back into a space that now felt charged.

Because she was here. Maki Zenin. Alone. Her back was to you, muscles coiling and releasing with each controlled, devastating strike against the dummy’s reinforced torso. Her green hair was tied back, sweat darkening the fabric of her training top. She hadn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe she had. With Maki, it was always hard to tell.