The gym still buzzed from Rias and Sona's peerages clashing. Mats stayed down, chalk scuffs and heel tracks still fresh, and people were only just starting to talk about cleaning when Yura cracked her knuckles and grinned straight at Sam.
Tomoe leaned in from the sideline with a crooked smile. "Don't beat him up too badly, Yura. I still want my turn."
Asia worried her hands together. "Sam, you just fought. Are you sure—?"
Sam rolled his shoulders, the answer flat but amused. "I've got the stamina for it." His eyes ticked to Tomoe; the faint flush at her ears said she caught the callback to her own innuendo from earlier.
"Begin when ready," Tsubaki said, all Council-neutral.
Sam let exoskeleton plating slide only where he needed it: elbows to fingertips, knees to toes. He could have ended it quick with claws or a burst of speed, but that would gut what Yura wanted. She wanted grit. And Muay Thai felt good against someone who could actually challenge it.
Yura moved first—jab, cross. The blocks rang along Sam's forearms. He answered with a low shin kick that cracked the air off the mat. They settled into a rhythm fast—hook against tuck, knee against guard, elbow glancing off a raised forearm. It stayed even because he kept it even, savoring the give-and-take.
She crashed in, clinch tight. Her head jerked back and drove forward.
Faceplate snapped across Sam's brow on instinct.
Crack.
The impact rattled his skull; it staggered her, too. For a heartbeat they breathed in each other's air—then Yura laughed, raw and fierce. "Yes! That's it!"
Tomoe groaned; Akeno sounded delighted. Koneko, deadpan: "…Troublesome."
Devil power bled into Yura's next punch. The straight hammered through Sam's plating and bruised the flesh beneath. Armor stopped breaks, not pain. He slid a step, teeth clenched, and let his eyes narrow.
His body shifted into assassin efficiency. Hips softened, pivots sharpened. Empath cut the noise from the signal—this was a real hit, that one a feint. He slipped by centimeters, cuffed an elbow into the biceps, dug knees into ribs and thigh. The rhythm dirtied. Neither gave ground.
Yura shifted low and locked him in a clinch-tackle hybrid, trying to muscle him down. Plating creaked. He hooked a leg to block the line, twisted his hips, chopped an elbow into her guard. She laughed breathless against his shoulder.
"Don't run—fight me here!"
"…Fine." His own armored headbutt thunked short against her guard. A reinforced knee found her ribs. He wrenched one arm free, pivoted hard, and broke them apart. They staggered, bruised and grinning.
They moved at once.
Two straight rights—hers devil-backed, his plated—met halfway.
CRACK. The sound echoed off the rafters.
Sam's wrist flared hot. Yura's knuckles folded. Not strength deciding it so much as material; her power broke itself against his guard.
She cradled her hand, still smiling. "That's what I wanted."
He flexed aching fingers. "…You don't hold back, do you?"
"Not when it's fun."
Asia hurried a step, healing light pooling in her palms. "Sam—please, let me—"
Rias touched her shoulder. "Not here. Later."
Sam shook his head. "I'll walk it off. She will too." The Council girls traded glances—holy light lingering on Asia's hands—but kept quiet.
Tomoe stepped forward, arms folding. "You need a few minutes?"
Sam rolled his wrist once, winced, and deadpanned, "Wouldn't get one in a real fight. Bring it."
She tossed a shinai. He caught it left-handed; the right was sore from that collision. His grip sat a hair too square. "You expect me to fight you with this?"
"You did say you could use it," Tomoe said, twirling her own with insulting ease. "So let's start. If you can't handle it, switch."
Akeno's voice lilting from the side: "Mmm. Now it gets interesting."
Koneko didn't look away. "…She's faster than Yura."
Tomoe darted in. The first slash rattled all the way to Sam's shoulder. The thrust that followed nearly tore the shinai from his hand. Reflex kept him alive; form did him no favors.
"She's faster," he exhaled, and let assassin reflexes clock in fully—pivots cleaner, slips tighter, the blade still an awkward extension. Always a half-beat behind.
Another thrust screeched along his guard and almost ripped the weapon free. He steadied, then let it drop with a clatter.
"Not for me. Not against someone this skilled."
Exoskeleton crawled back over both arms.
Tomoe smiled. "Fair enough. But don't think bare hands make it easier."
"…Didn't think it would." His stance folded into Muay Thai.
She needled in with the point; he angled past and answered with a sharp low kick. Her blade chopped down to intercept; the impact thudded through both of them. She peppered feints over feints, lines changing mid-step; he let reflex and Empath filter which mattered. Jabs stung when she overcommitted. Elbows kissed the guard. Knees bought breathing room.
He could ride her pace this way, barely. Every pivot came a beat too slow. Every read, a shade less sharp than when survival was on the line. Stray devil. The Fallen. Freed's killing intent. The edge came alive when death was near. Here, it was a spar, and the edge stayed just out of reach.
Tomoe's focus burned hotter. She wasn't stopping without being made to.
"…Alright," he muttered. "One more."
Energy coursed down his legs. The greaves' blue-white brightened, then flared whitish-gold as Holy Hero power surged through. Sparks raced along his shin. The room stiffened, instinct catching the shift.
Tomoe lunged, thrust lined for his chest.
Sam pivoted and let the roundhouse fly. The greave blazed, and when it met her shinai the sound cracked like thunder. The shock shoved through her guard, boots scraping long lines in the mat until a heel slipped over the boundary.
Whistle.
She breathed out, then gave him a half-smile. "…That's new."
He lowered his leg; the glow drained. "…Didn't want to use it. But you weren't giving me a choice."
Yura adjusted her bandage and grinned. "…You weren't really trying, were you?"
Tomoe smirked, blade shouldered. "…Not all the way. I could feel it."
"I was trying enough," Sam said, flexing stiff fingers. "That's the point of a spar—you match your opponent so you both push yourselves. A battle's different. You fight to live. You don't care what it looks like. Unless honor's on the line. But if it's survival?" He shrugged. "Fuck honor. Three near-death fights will teach you that."
Yura's smile sharpened. "…Then what about Saji?"
His mouth twitched. "Saji ticked me off. Wanted to hate me? Fine. I gave him a reason. I don't like being hated for nothing. At least give me a reason—or I'll give you one."
"And he got his."
Cleanup started around the banter—mats stacked, tape pulled, scuffs swept. People drifted out in twos and threes. The last rubber roll thumped into place, and the gym went quiet.
Saturday slowed down.
Asia stood in the kitchen in an apron, determination glowing—and the burner a touch too high. Tiche adjusted the flame without looking away from the pan. Koneko sat on the counter with crackers, watching like it was a show.
Sam rubbed sleep from his eyes as he stepped in. "…One day you'll win, Asia. Odds aren't great, but still."
"I'll get it right!" Asia huffed.
"…Doubt it," Koneko said.
Tiche flipped everything to safety, calm and precise. Breakfast survived, then turned hearty.
After, Tiche set chopsticks down. "We're low on a few things. I'll need them for dinner."
Sam shrugged. "Figures. I'll grab them after lunch."
"I can go—" Asia started.
"Nah. I need the air."
Koneko, mouth full: "…Don't get lost."
Akeno walked in, bright as ever. "Oh my, how responsible. Running errands already… prime husband material."
Sam stared at her, dry. "…So you're saying I've been promoted from free labor to lifelong free labor."
Akeno laughed; Rias, pen in hand, didn't look up. "Just don't get too distracted, Sam."
The house settled into weekend rhythm. Kiba disappeared to train; Rias and Akeno vanished under paperwork. Asia hummed through dishes. Koneko sprawled across the couch, unmoving. Tiche did what Tiche always did—smoothed edges without being seen.
Sam fell into the gaps without thinking. Boxes shifted rooms. A hinge stopped squeaking. Dust went somewhere that wasn't the bookshelf. Chores had weight. Weight kept him steady.
Juvie. Boot camp. Two and a half years of discipline hammered into shape. When he'd had nothing, work and workouts and borrowed textbooks were the only rails. No hobbies. No belonging. Just routine that didn't talk back. Helping here felt like that—quiet, simple, right.
By midday he grabbed a jacket. "I'll get the groceries."
"Be careful, Sam!" Asia called.
"…Bring snacks," Koneko added without glancing up.
The door clicked behind him. The street buzzed with bikes and vendors and ordinary life. By any man's measure, he had it good—roof, food, people who gave a damn. Surrounded by beauties—
He stopped and blinked. …Did I really just think that?
Survival was supposed to come first. But day by day, their affection had worn grooves in his walls. He huffed a laugh at himself. Great. First time I stop looking over my shoulder, I trip over my own thoughts instead.
The grocery's sliding doors hummed under fluorescent light. He took a basket and ran Tiche's list clean: rice, vegetables, oil, meat. He drifted toward snacks, muttering, "…If I don't bring something for Koneko, she'll stare holes through me. And Asia'll just look too hopeful."
His hand reached for a bag of chips. Another hand touched it at the same time.
Yuma's smile met him. "Sam. Just like I said… we'd talk again."
"…Something like that."
"Still carrying everyone's weight?" she asked lightly. "Or finally letting someone carry yours?"
He shifted the basket and started to move. Her fingers closed around his bicep.
"Going so soon?"
"This is a grocery run for my roommates. Shouldn't take too long."
"Surely you've got a little time to yourself, right?"
He glanced down the aisle. Two more presences. "And your friends? They joining us?"
Yuma's mouth curved. "…Already tired of me? Or just greedy for company?" She sighed and tipped her head. "Aoi. Minami. Come on."
Aoi set a can back on the shelf and strolled over with a smirk. Minami folded a magazine and drifted in quietly, the aloof mask in place—until she looked at Sam. The mask cracked; color rose.
Empath told him the rest. Aoi's amusement with an edge of unsettled. Minami's nerves tangling with attraction. Yuma's fixation pressed deeper.
He drew a breath and let intimidation settle over the aisle. "You're not slick," he said, voice even. "Circling me takes effort, but it isn't honest." His eyes slid to Minami, the look predatory without being cruel. "You're the only one showing anything close to sincerity. But you can't string two sentences together."
Aoi's smirk wobbled just enough to betray her. Minami's lips parted; no words came. Yuma didn't step back. She stepped closer.
"Tension?" She tilted her chin up, close enough to trespass. "Of course there's tension, Sam."
Her finger started down his chest.
He caught her wrist. "No. Be real."
Yuma's eyes held his, her fixation cracked, honesty slipping through. "You want real?" she asked softly. "Fine. I want you."
He blinked. "…Sorry, what? Excuse me?"
He let go, pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't just say that. Who even says that?" Empath didn't give him wiggle room—she meant it. Heavy. Real.
Yuma took a half-step back, breath hitching before she found the tease again. "Who says it is, or who says it isn't? You wanted real. Is that real enough?"
"That's a little too real." He looked at the other two. "Don't tell me it's an all-three-of-you thing."
Minami turned away, cheeks warm, silence admitting what words wouldn't. Aoi found her footing and arched a brow. "And what if it was? Think you could handle it?"
Sam steadied himself, like resetting a stance. "You three wanted time, right? Fine. Let's see how real this is. Or if it's just another play."
Surprise broke across three faces. Empath cut through: not a game. Not this time.
…Okay, he thought. Hope I don't regret this.
They left with him still carrying the basket. On the sidewalk he stopped and faced them. "Two options," he said. "Restaurant—nothing fancy. Or arcade. See how you are with games."
Aoi perked visibly. Minami's nerves fizzed into something excited. Yuma didn't care where, only with.
"Fine," Sam decided. "Arcade first, then eat. But one hour. My roommates notice when I'm gone."
Asia worrying. Koneko staring. Tiche stepping forward if he went unaccounted for.
"One hour," he repeated, flat.
Whatever this was—hangout, date, trap—it had a clock. One hour.