The house was quiet when Emma returned.
Night had settled in fully now—streetlights humming softly outside, the distant echo of the festival already fading like it never happened.
Emma slipped her shoes off at the entrance and stepped inside.
The living room light was on.
Ethan sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea steaming gently in his hand. The TV played some late-night program, low volume—he wasn't really watching it.
He noticed her immediately.
"…You're back," he said.
"Yes."
She set her bag down and walked in, standing near the doorway.
Asuka was asleep in their room—door half open, soft breathing, completely knocked out from emotional exhaustion and motherly worrying.
Ethan took a sip of tea, eyes still on the screen for a moment.
Then he spoke—calm, serious, careful.
"Emma… we should go back to training."
Emma didn't react right away.
"I know you said it's enough," Ethan continued. "And I respected that."
He turned the TV off and finally looked at her fully.
"But you don't live in a vacuum. Things happen. People change. Situations turn ugly fast."
A pause.
"You'll need practice."
Emma crossed her arms slowly.
"…This isn't about fear," she said.
"I know," Ethan replied. "It's about preparation."
Silence filled the room.
The clock ticked.
Emma looked down at the floor, then back up at him. Her face was calm—but thoughtful.
"…How often," she asked.
Ethan's expression softened a little. "Twice a week. Light. No pressure."
Another pause.
"…Fine," Emma said. "But no competitions."
He smiled—not wide, not proud. Just relieved. "Agreed."
She turned toward the hallway.
"Good night, father."
"Good night, daughter."
As Emma walked to her room, Ethan lifted his tea again, eyes thoughtful now—not worried, not scared.
Just aware.
Because even in a normal life…
You train—not because danger is guaranteed—
—but because peace never is.
----
The morning air was cool and quiet.
The small training yard behind the house was still damp with dew. No crowds. No noise. Just open space, wooden posts, and the faint sound of birds waking up.
Emma stood across from Ethan.
Both in simple training clothes.
No words were exchanged at first.
"Begin," Ethan said calmly.
Emma moved.
Her steps were clean, controlled—no wasted motion. She closed the distance, aiming precise strikes, testing angles. Ethan blocked, redirected, corrected with small movements rather than force.
They circled.
"Your balance is good," Ethan said. "But you're hesitating."
"I'm adjusting," Emma replied.
"Adjustment shouldn't slow intention."
She nodded once and attacked again—faster this time. A clean feint, a low sweep, then a strike that stopped an inch from Ethan's chest.
He raised a brow. "Better."
They trained like that—no shouting, no anger. Just rhythm.
Breathing.
Footwork.
Control.
At one point, Emma caught Ethan's wrist and twisted just enough to force him back a step.
He chuckled. "You're improving."
"You're slower," she said.
"Rude."
"Accurate."
They stopped after a while. Emma exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from her brow.
"…I missed this," she admitted quietly.
Ethan handed her a towel. "I knew you would."
She took it. "…Don't tell mother."
He smiled. "My lips are sealed."
The sun was higher now.
Training was done.
Not for violence.
Not for fear.
Just preparation—
and trust.
A normal life.
With discipline.
After the shower, Emma's hair was still slightly damp, tied loosely behind her neck. She was changing into clean clothes when—
The window slid open.
"EMMA."
Emma didn't even flinch. "…You need to stop doing that."
Diana climbed in like this was a daily routine. "No time. Emergency."
"What."
Diana grabbed her wrist. "We're going to Mostang's house."
"…Why."
"You'll see."
That was not reassuring.
---
A few minutes later, they were crouched outside Mostang's house, hidden behind a fence like two extremely suspicious criminals.
Diana slowly lifted her head.
"…Okay. Look."
Emma leaned forward.
Through the slightly open window—
Mostang was in the middle of his room.
Music blasting.
Lights dimmed.
And in the center of the room…
A giant female doll.
Mannequin-sized.
Fully dressed.
Makeup done.
Hair styled.
Mostang was dancing with it.
Spinning it dramatically.
Dipping it like it weighed nothing.
Whispering something to it with intense eye contact.
Emma stared.
Silent.
Unblinking.
"…Is that," Emma said slowly, "a doll."
Diana covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing. "BRO HE MADE IT HIMSELF."
Inside, Mostang twirled the doll and struck a pose. "Oh my beautiful—"
The doll's arm fell off.
"…Ah," Mostang said calmly, picking it up and reattaching it with tape. "Perfection requires maintenance."
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose.
"…We should leave."
"No wait—LOOK," Diana whispered urgently.
Mostang began slow dancing again, dramatically mouthing the lyrics, one hand on the doll's waist.
Emma's soul temporarily left her body.
"…I am never unseeing this."
Diana was shaking violently with suppressed laughter. "THIS IS WHY HE NEVER HAS A GIRLFRIEND."
Suddenly—
Mostang stopped.
The music cut.
He turned slowly toward the window.
"…Why do I feel judged."
Emma froze.
Diana whispered, "RUN."
Too late.
The window slammed open.
Mostang leaned out, hair messy, eyes wide with horror.
"…HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE."
Emma stood up straight. "…Long enough."
Diana wheezed. "BRO—"
Mostang screamed internally.
"…THIS IS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE."
Emma tilted her head. "You built a doll."
"For ARTISTIC PURPOSES."
"And danced with it."
"…FOR PRACTICE."
"Practice for what," Diana asked.
Mostang collapsed to his knees. "…Confidence."
Silence.
Emma turned away. "I'm going home."
Diana wiped tears from her eyes. "Best day of my life."
From the yard, Mostang shouted desperately, "PLEASE DON'T TELL ANYONE."
Emma didn't look back.
"…I won't," she said.
Then, after a pause—
"But I will never forget."
Diana burst out laughing again.
Mostang's reputation was finished.
Chapter end