The next morning broke through the fog with a pale, bruised light. Wind moved through the cracks of the old building, carrying the smell of rust and dust.
24 was already awake, standing in the center of the training room, silent as stone. Lu stepped in moments later, her gait steady but her movements slower than usual—her muscles still sore from the day before.
On the table beside him lay her twin blades, their edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. She stopped when she saw them.
"So, I get them back?" she asked.
24 didn't answer immediately. He looked at her hands—still raw along the knuckles, still trembling slightly from yesterday's punishment. Then he nodded once.
"You earned them," he said, tossing one of the blades toward her. She caught it easily. The second followed a breath later.
She gave the weapon a slow twirl, feeling the familiar weight settle into her grip.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch," 24 said. "But this time, we mix it. You fight with your blades. I fight without mine. I want to see if you've learned to adapt between distance and touch."
Lu arched a brow behind her mask.
"You're unarmed again?"
"Doesn't mean I'm defenseless," he said. His stance shifted slightly—small, efficient, dangerous.
She felt the pulse in the air change.
They began circling, steps echoing softly against the cracked concrete. 24 didn't rush her. He just watched—his eyes tracking her rhythm, her weight, the direction her shoulders moved when she prepared to strike.
Then, without warning, she lunged.
Her blade came in low, arcing toward his side. 24 caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting just enough to throw her balance off. He didn't counterattack—just redirected, letting her momentum pull her past him.
She stumbled, caught herself, spun back. This time, her strike was sharper—closer to instinct than plan.
24 ducked beneath it, his palm brushing her elbow to change her angle, then stepped in close, trapping her inside her own range. His voice was calm.
"When I'm this close, your blade's a liability."
She exhaled through her mask.
"Then I'll make space."
She twisted sharply, elbow catching his ribs—not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to free her arm. She spun, blade rising.
He slipped back just in time—the steel slicing a strand of his hair as it passed.
"Better," he said.
They fell into rhythm after that—a brutal, quiet dance of metal and movement.
Lu's strikes were controlled now, not frantic. She was learning where to place her attacks, when to withdraw, when to wait. 24 moved like a shadow around her, intercepting her without ever striking full force.
Every now and then, his hand would flash, pushing her wrist, turning her weight, forcing her to reset. He was testing her—forcing her to feel how combat flowed, not just react.
At one point, she feinted high, then rolled low and swept at his legs. He jumped—not a full displacement jump, just enough for her blade to pass beneath him. He landed behind her, close enough that she felt the air shift.
She turned, blade raised—but his hand was already on her shoulder, and with a small twist, he disarmed her.
The blade clattered to the floor.
He didn't gloat, didn't smile. He just stared down at her.
"You're learning. But you still fight in sequences. Real fights break rhythm—they devour it."
Lu bent to grab her blade, voice tight but steady.
"Then break mine again."
24 stepped back and nodded once.
"Good. You're starting to understand."
The session stretched into the afternoon. They didn't speak much, only moved—steel and skin clashing in a rhythm that grew faster with every exchange.
Once, she nearly caught him—her blade grazing the sleeve of his arm before he redirected it and locked her in a grapple.
"Close," he murmured near her ear. "You're reading my hips. That's good. Don't trust my hands—trust the weight."
"You could've said that before throwing me into a wall," she grunted, pushing him off.
He smirked faintly.
"You remember better when it hurts."
By sundown, the floor was streaked with scuff marks and dust, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cracked walls.
Lu dropped her blades to the floor, breathing heavy, mask fogged from the heat of her breath. 24 stood across from her, calm as always, though sweat glistened faintly at his temples.
"That's enough for today," he said finally.
"You sure?" she asked, panting. "I almost had you that last time."
"Almost," he said. "But 'almost' doesn't keep you alive."
She chuckled weakly and sank to the ground, leaning her back against the wall.
"Then I'll keep getting closer."
24 crossed his arms, watching her for a long moment before replying.
"You are. And you'll keep improving—if you survive long enough to use it."
The tone was flat, but there was something behind it—an acknowledgment, almost respect.
He turned toward the door, voice quieter.
"Tomorrow, we start something different. You've learned control. Now you learn intent."
Lu tilted her head.
"Meaning?"
"Knowing when not to strike," he said. "And when to make it count."
He left the room without another word.
Lu stayed where she was, the fading light spilling across her blades. Her arms ached, her knuckles burned, but she smiled faintly beneath the mask.
He was pushing her to the edge—but each time, she climbed a little higher.