The next morning hurts in new places.
Not the usual "I worked too long" ache. Deeper. More precise. The kind of soreness that says, congratulations, you discovered muscles you never knew you had.
I roll out of bed slowly. My back protests. My shoulders feel like someone parked an anvil on them. My forearms are tight ropes.
I do light stretches anyway. If I stop moving, I'm dead. Or at least stiff enough to wish I was.
Squats, but shallow. Arm circles, small. Neck rolls. A few slow falls onto the thin mattress, just to remind my body what we practiced.
Chin tucked. Back rounded. Arms slap. Less panic each time.
"Good morning to you too," I tell my bruises.
They don't answer.
Haim's workshop smells like burnt oil and bad decisions.
The bell over the door clinks when I walk in. He doesn't look up at first. Just keeps wrestling with a rusted bolt that refuses to understand it's already lost.
"You're late," he says.
"I'm on time," I say. "You're just early to complaining."
He snorts. Finally glances over.
His eyes narrow for half a second. Not at my face, but at how I move.
"Bag," he says.
I drop it in the usual corner. The motion sends a pulse of pain through my shoulder. I keep my face still.
"Start with the filter housings," he says. "We got three in last night. They look like they've been through war."
"Perfect," I say. "I like my enemies pre-damaged."
I grab the first housing, haul it to the bench. It's heavy. My arms scream, but they obey.
The morning settles into the usual rhythm: clinks, scrapes, the whine of tools, curses in three different dialects. Haim mutters to himself over a compressor. I clean out gunk that has probably existed since before the Republic.
But there's a difference.
I feel… sharper.
Not faster. Not stronger. Just more aware of where my body starts and ends.
When I bend, I keep my spine aligned instead of folding like laundry. When I lift, I use my legs, not just my back. When I step around the cluttered floor, my feet place themselves without tripping over cables.
All the stance work from the alley is bleeding into everything.
Haim notices. Of course he does.
Haim POV:
The kid walks in like his joints hurt. Tries to hide it. Doesn't do a terrible job, but I've been watching people pretend they're fine for thirty years.
He moves different, too. Less… loose. Less sloppy in the way normal street rats are. His feet land quiet. He doesn't bump the same crate twice. When he bends to lift, his knees bend first instead of his spine trying to jump out of his back.
That's not orphanage posture. That's not "I carry sacks sometimes."
That's "someone is teaching me not to die young."
I don't ask. Yet.
Kids around here only get training like that for three reasons: they're joining Guards, they're aiming for the pits, or they're stupid.
This one? Could be all three.
He doesn't wince when he reaches too far, but his shoulders are tight as wire. The bruises around his ribs are older. The way he favors his left foot for half a step? That's from last night.
So. He found someone. Or someone found him.
Question is whether they're using him or helping him.
Haven't decided yet.
Ryu POV:
Around mid-morning, Haim starts testing something.
Not obviously. That's not his style.
He "accidentally" drops a wrench off the bench near me.
Old me would've jumped back or let it hit my foot and then sworn.
New me shifts weight without thinking. Step back, slight pivot, tool hits floor where my toes used to be.
I frown at him. "You trying to kill me or the tiles?"
"You moved," he says.
"I like my bones in one piece," I say. "Is that a crime now?"
Five minutes later, he calls from across the room.
"Ryu."
I glance over.
He tosses me a small gasket. Not hard, not soft. Mid-height.
Before, it would've smacked me in the face or bounced off my chest and rolled somewhere annoying.
My hand comes up without conscious thought.
Snatch.
The ring lands in my palm. Fingers close around it. My shoulders don't flail, my balance doesn't break.
I blink.
Haim grunts.
"Since when do you catch things on the first try?" he asks.
"Since you stopped throwing them at my head," I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
We go back to work. But I can feel his eyes on my back more than usual.
We're cleaning a pump housing together when he finally asks.
"You fighting in the pits?" he says, casual as a knife on a table.
I don't flinch. Much.
"No," I say. "I like my face the current shape."
"You training with someone?" he says.
"Define training," I say.
He gives me a flat look.
"I define it as 'learning how to hit things and not die when they hit back,'" he says.
"Then yes," I say. "A little."
He keeps scrubbing at a crust of something unholy stuck to the metal.
"With who?" he asks.
"Two guys near the bar on third," I say. "They move like they know things. I asked for basics. They agreed. In exchange, I help with errands. No pits. No gambling."
He grunts.
"Names?" he asks.
"Kain and Bruk," I say.
He makes a sound that could be a curse or a laugh.
Of course he knows them. The world is small like that.
"They good?" I ask.
"They're alive," he says. "In this district, that's good enough."
"Comforting review," I say.
He sets the brush down, rinses his hands, and looks at me properly.
"You know what men like that teach first?" he says.
"How to fall," I say. "And how to stop thinking falling is the end."
He snorts. "So they haven't gone completely soft."
I flex my fingers, feeling the echo of yesterday's slaps and punches.
"It's… useful," I say. "I got jumped before I started with them. I did better than I would have a year ago. I still almost got folded. Now I know exactly how much I don't know."
"That's more awareness than most grown idiots," he says.
He dries his hands on a rag.
"You aiming for something?" he asks. "Or just trying not to die before twenty?"
I hesitate.
This is one of those moments where honesty is either a good investment or a terrible idea.
"I want to be strong enough," I say slowly, "that when I go for the Hunter Exam one day, I don't die in the first ten minutes."
He goes very still.
"You're serious," he says.
"Painfully," I say.
He laughs once, humorless.
"Kid," he says. "Hunters aren't guys who can throw a punch and pay rent. They deal with things this city doesn't even have names for."
"I know," I say.
"No," he says. "You think you know. There's a difference."
I meet his eyes.
"I know I don't know the full thing," I say. "I also know staying small and weak in a world that dangerous is a slower way to die."
We stare at each other.
Haim POV:
Idiot. Brave idiot.
He says "Hunter" like it's just a hard exam. Like it's not a profession built on walking into situations sane people run from.
But he's not saying it with that stupid shine I've seen in other kids. Not the "I wanna be famous" glow. His version is colder. Like someone who read a list of risks and decided to go anyway because the alternatives were worse.
He's been listening. Watching. Plotting his way out of the gutter since he could stand.
That kind of kid either burns out or burns through everyone in his way.
I don't like either option. But I like the thought of him going into that world unprepared even less.
I'm not a fighter. I fix things. But I can make sure he doesn't break himself before he gets there.
A little, at least.
Ryu POV:
Haim sighs. The kind of sigh that sounds like it's smoked a pack a day.
"All right," he says. "You want to train, train. But listen."
He points a greasy finger at me.
"You come in here broken, you tell me exactly what happened," he says. "No pride. No 'I'm fine.' I need to know if you're going to drop a part on your own foot because some idiot kicked your knee sideways the night before."
"That's fair," I say.
"And you don't take every fight you're offered just to test your new tricks," he says. "You're not a toy. You're an investment."
"Your investment?" I ask.
"Mine, the city's, whoever has to deal with you later," he says. "I don't care. Point is, don't waste what you're building."
I nod slowly.
"I'm not looking for fights," I say. "I'm trying to make sure that when they find me, I'm not completely useless."
"Good," he says. "You're still going to be half-useless. But that's half better than most."
He picks up the brush again.
"And for the record," he adds, "if those two start talking about putting you in matches for money, you tell me."
"What will you do?" I ask. "Hit them with a wrench?"
"Talk to them," he says. "With a wrench."
I smile, just a little.
"Deal," I say.
The rest of the day blurs into work.
But I feel lighter.
Not physically. Physically I feel like someone used my muscles as drum practice.
Mentally, though?
One less secret to carry alone.
Haim knows I'm training. Knows I'm aiming at something bigger than "not starving." He didn't laugh me out of the workshop. He didn't forbid it.
He warned me.
That's his version of caring.
On my way out that evening, he stops me at the door.
"Ryu," he says.
"Yeah?" I turn.
"If you actually make it," he says, "to that exam… don't forget where you came from."
"I couldn't if I tried," I say.
He snorts. "Get lost. And don't die in any alleys I know. It's bad for my reputation."
"I'll find a fresh alley," I say.
I step out into the street.
The city hums around me: voices, wheels, distant train brakes, someone arguing about price. My bruises ache in time with my heartbeat.
I adjust my stance the way Kain showed me, just for a moment, as I walk.
Balanced. Guard invisible but ready. Eyes open.
I'm still just a kid with a small room, a small wage, and borrowed techniques.
But now the people around me are starting to see it too:
I'm not planning to stay like this.