The room they put me in smelled like old iron.
Not fresh blood. Old. The kind that had soaked into stone and never quite left. The walls were bare, rough beneath my fingertips, cold enough that it bit through my clothes when I leaned back against them. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, flame flickering just enough to keep shadows alive.
I sat on the floor with my legs pulled in, back straight, hands resting on my knees.
Waiting.
The door opened without a sound.
I didn't look up.
Boots crossed the stone. Slow. Measured. Each step placed with intent, not habit. Whoever it was stopped a few feet in front of me.
"Stand," a voice said.
Male. Calm. Not loud.
I rose.
The man in front of me was tall, broad in a way that had nothing to do with size. His flak jacket was worn smooth at the edges. No mask. No visible weapon. His eyes were grey, flat, and uncurious.
He studied me the way a butcher studies livestock.
"Hands up," he said.
I raised them.
He stepped forward and struck.
No warning.
His fist slammed into my stomach, all the air ripping out of me at once. My body folded instinctively, spine curving as I gagged. Before I could recover, his knee drove into my chest and sent me skidding backward across the stone.
I hit the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.
"Too slow," he said.
I forced air back into my lungs, vision swimming. My ribs screamed where bone met bone. I pushed myself upright, hands shaking, Sharingan flaring on reflex.
The world sharpened.
He was already moving.
His foot hooked behind mine and yanked. I fell. His heel came down toward my face. I twisted, the impact grazing my cheek instead of crushing it, and rolled away.
Stone scraped skin.
I got to one knee.
He was there again.
His elbow crashed into my shoulder, driving me sideways. Something popped. Pain flared hot and blinding. I bit down hard enough that I tasted blood.
"Eyes don't make you fast," he said.
I lashed out.
My fist cut toward his ribs. He slipped it easily, caught my wrist, and twisted. Tendons screamed. My fingers went numb. He stepped inside my guard and slammed his forehead into my nose.
Wet heat exploded.
I stumbled back, clutching my face as blood poured down over my lips and chin. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision. The Sharingan showed me everything—the way his weight shifted, the way his muscles coiled before each strike.
Knowing didn't help.
He closed the distance again.
I dropped low and swept for his legs.
He jumped.
His heel came down on my spine.
I hit the ground hard enough that my vision went white at the edges. Air whooshed out of me. For a second, I couldn't feel my legs.
I lay there, cheek pressed against cold stone, chest heaving uselessly.
Boots stopped beside my head.
"You fight like someone who's survived," he said. "Not like someone who intends to."
I forced my hands under me and pushed.
My arms trembled violently. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging. My shoulder screamed in protest as I rose. My nose throbbed with each heartbeat.
I stood anyway.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Again."
---
This time, I didn't rush.
I slowed my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Pain faded to a distant roar—still there, but contained. I let the Sharingan pull information without letting it pull me.
He stepped in.
I stepped back.
His punch came straight for my face. I leaned just enough that it brushed past my cheek, heat rushing by. My counter came low, knuckles digging into his side.
It felt like punching a wall.
He didn't even grunt.
His forearm smashed into my throat. I gagged, hands clawing uselessly at the air. He shoved me backward and released me at the last second. I dropped to one knee, coughing violently, lungs burning.
"Better," he said. "Still wrong."
I looked up at him through watery eyes.
"Why?" I rasped.
He crouched in front of me.
"So you stop thinking fights are moments," he said quietly. "They're processes. You don't win by landing a blow. You win by taking things away."
He stood.
"Get up."
I did.
My body protested every movement. My shoulder barely obeyed me. My legs felt heavy, like they'd been filled with sand.
He circled.
I tracked him.
When he attacked this time, I didn't meet him head-on.
I retreated. Step by step. Letting him push me. Letting him think I was breaking. I watched his breathing, the tension in his calves, the fraction of a second where his weight committed forward.
Then I moved sideways instead of back.
His strike cut through empty air.
I stepped in close, inside his reach, and drove my elbow up into his jaw.
The impact jarred my arm to the bone.
He staggered.
Just a step.
That was all I needed.
I hooked my leg behind his and twisted, throwing my weight into it. He went down hard, stone cracking beneath him. I was on him instantly, knee pinning his arm, hands closing around his throat.
For half a second—
Just half—
I imagined squeezing.
Then his fist slammed into my ribs.
Once. Twice.
My grip loosened.
He bucked, rolled, and threw me off with terrifying ease. I hit the floor and skidded, gasping.
He stood, brushing dust from his jacket.
"Good," he said. "Now you're thinking."
He turned toward the door.
"Rest. Tomorrow, we start removing habits."
The door closed behind him.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, every inch of my body throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
I smiled.
It hurt.