Jim's POV
The door opened.
Not slammed.
Not kicked in.
Just pushed.
And in that single, ordinary motion, the air inside the building rushed out toward us.
It hit me in the face.
A layered stench—thick, heavy, almost tangible.
Sweat that had soaked into walls and clothing over countless nights.
Cigarette smoke that had nowhere left to escape.
Cheap alcohol, the kind that burned the throat and left a sour aftertaste even without drinking it.
And beneath it all, the unmistakable rot of a space sealed for too long—mold, dampness, decay.
The smells didn't arrive one by one.
They tangled together, clung to each other, then wrapped themselves around my senses.
My brows knit together before I even realized it.
I stopped breathing.
Not because I decided to—but because my body refused to pull the air in.
Seven stepped forward first.
His pace didn't change.
No hesitation.
No adjustment.
As if this place was no different from a hotel hallway or a quiet street at night.
The dim lighting stretched his shadow along the floor, long and sharp-edged. His back was straight, shoulders relaxed, posture unbroken. There was nothing cautious about him—no stiffness, no visible tension.
It was the posture of someone who had walked into places like this before.
Places worse than this.
The moment he crossed the threshold, his wrist moved.
A single flick.
I barely registered the motion—only the sound.
Crack.
A stone struck something above us.
I followed the sound upward just in time to see glass fracture in the corner of the ceiling. The surveillance camera jolted, the lens twisting at an unnatural angle before going dark completely.
The sound wasn't loud.
But in the narrow hallway, where every noise echoed just a little too clearly, it felt sharp. Exposed.
"Never give the enemy information," Seven said.
His voice was level. Controlled.
Not whispered—but not raised, either.
It carried without effort.
"Of course," he continued, after a brief pause, "depending on the situation, you can also do the opposite."
He took another step forward.
"Make them feel even more powerless."
I didn't fully understand what he meant.
Not yet.
But I didn't get the chance to ask.
He was already moving again.
The hallway stretched ahead of us—narrow, enclosed, its walls stained with old grime. The floor looked dark in places, glossy in others. When I stepped down, my shoe made a faint sound.
Sticky.
I adjusted my footing instinctively, trying to reduce the noise. Tried to match Seven's pace.
It didn't help.
My heartbeat was loud.
Too loud.
Each thump felt like it might echo off the walls, give me away. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow, measured not by calm but by fear of being heard.
Then—
Movement.
A blur in my peripheral vision.
A figure burst out from one of the side rooms.
My brain lagged behind my eyes.
Before I could even identify what I was seeing, Seven had already reacted.
He reached out—not rushed, not frantic.
His hand closed around the handle of a mop leaning against the wall.
I hadn't noticed it before.
But the way he picked it up made it feel as though he had known it would be there all along.
No hesitation.
No searching.
He stepped down.
The wooden joint snapped cleanly beneath his foot.
The sharp crack echoed.
The mop head flew forward, kicked with precise force.
It struck the charging man square in the abdomen.
The sound was dull.
Heavy.
The man let out a strangled groan, his momentum collapsing inward as his body folded. He stumbled, then crashed to the floor, the impact reverberating through the narrow space.
The other two froze.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But that was enough.
Seven closed the distance.
The mop handle moved.
Not wildly.
Not aggressively.
Just… efficiently.
A horizontal swing—controlled, measured.
A pullback—clean, immediate.
Another strike—angled, precise.
Each impact landed where it needed to.
Not excessive.
Not brutal.
Exact.
Their bodies crumpled, one after another, hitting the floor with muted thuds. No shouting. No prolonged struggle.
In seconds, the hallway returned to silence.
The kind of silence that felt heavier than noise.
Seven looked down at them, checking.
Then he released the mop handle, letting it clatter to the side.
"This isn't within the scope of abilities," he said.
"It's just training."
I stood there.
Frozen.
Breath locked halfway in.
What I had just witnessed refused to fit into reality.
This wasn't something that should exist outside of illustrated panels or choreographed scenes. This was the kind of thing directors spent months polishing, slowing down, exaggerating.
But there had been no pause.
No emphasis.
Just cause and effect.
I didn't realize how intently I was staring until something moved again.
Too close.
A presence rushed toward me.
I turned.
Too late.
A face—twisted, contorted with aggression.
A metal pipe—raised high, hands gripping it awkwardly, without form, without control.
But there was weight behind it.
Real weight.
Time stretched—then snapped back.
I couldn't move.
My body ignored me.
This is it.
That thought barely finished forming when—
Bang.
Not pain.
Not impact.
Seven was there.
I didn't see him arrive.
One moment, the pipe was descending.
The next, his hand struck the attacker's wrist.
The metal pipe flew free, clanging against the floor, rolling away with a sharp, ringing sound that cut through the air.
Before the man could react—before I could even breathe—
Seven's strike landed against his neck.
The body dropped.
Just like that.
Silence rushed back in, filling the space left behind.
The pipe continued to roll, spinning slowly before losing momentum.
That sound—
the metal scraping against the floor—
felt unbearably loud.
My limbs felt numb.
Cold spread from my fingertips inward.
If he had been slower.
If he had hesitated.
If he hadn't been watching me—
"Even when facing weak opponents," Seven said, his voice unchanged,
"never let your guard down."
"Y-Yes," I replied.
The word came out stiff. Automatic.
My mind was nowhere near my mouth.
It was spinning.
Racing.
How long would it take to reach that level?
Could I ever reach it?
The gap felt enormous.
Unbridgeable.
Anyone else would have been terrified.
Anyone else would have backed away, wished they had never come.
But that wasn't what filled my chest.
What surfaced instead was—
I want to be strong like him.
The thought startled me.
It didn't feel rational.
It didn't feel safe.
But it was there.
Clear.
Unyielding.
And no matter how hard I tried, it refused to disappear.