After what felt like hours of Mira scolding Shin, the door clicked shut, cutting off her final teasing words. Alyssa exhaled softly, feeling the room empty around her until only Akito remained. For a moment, silence was heavy in the med ward, the machines quietly humming their noises.

  —-

  Mira was already snapping at Shin before they’d walked ten feet from the ward.

  “Seriously, would it kill you to pay attention sometimes?” she scolded, elbowing Shin sharply in the ribs. “You forgot food for Akito—again.”

  Shin grinned, brushing his coat off like she had wounded him. “I thought you were grabbing it. You were closer.”

  Without a word, Mira smacked him hard across the back of the head.

  “Ow! Abuse! Darius, you’re second-in-command—assist your commander!”

  Darius chuckled dryly, walking past with his hands in his pockets. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged pink mohawk and pink eyes. “I’m second-in-command, not suicidal.”

  Shin rubbed his head and groaned. “I feel bad for your future husband.”

  Mira muttered under her breath, eyes a little too focused forward. “You know I won’t have a husband.”

  Shin stopped for a split second. His smirk faded. “…Sorry.”

  Before the moment could linger, they rounded the corner—and froze.

  Harold leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. A nearby light made his white hair shine, yellow eyes locked on Shin like he’d been waiting for hours.

  “My, it’s really quite weird to want my attention this badly,” Shin said, smirk instantly returning.

  “Shut up, Yukimura. You know what I want.”

  “To get your ass kicked again?”

  Harold didn’t respond to it. He just pushed off the wall and started walking.

  Mira sighed and waved them off. “Don’t kill each other. I don’t feel like dealing with body disposal.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Darius looked at Shin as they walked past. “Number forty-something?”

  “Feels like seventy,” Shin groaned.

  —-

  The arena dimly lit by overhead lights casting harsh shadows across the reinforced metal tiles. Electric energy filled the air, static energy building like a prelude to a storm. Harold stood barefoot on the stone floor, his lean, muscular frame was tense with anticipation. Even though he is shorter than average, Harold was nothing to underestimate.

  His white hair crackled at the edges, and his golden eyes burned with the kind of obsession that didn’t know how to quit.

  Shin stood across the ring with hands lazily in his pockets, relaxed. His black hair framed his face. His violet eyes flickered playfully—though faint trails of plasma danced at his heels.

  “You ready?” Harold asked.

  “I’ve already done this song and dance so many times I’m forgetting the choreography,” Shin replied, tilting his head.

  Harold gave no warning. His body became a bolt of lightning, quite literally, vanishing into a blinding streak.

  Shin’s smile faded just a bit. He stepped left, narrowly avoiding the bolt as it crashed into the far wall, cracking the stone. Harold reformed, crouched, panting from effort.

  Mira, watching from above behind a glass pane, sighed. “Still too stubborn to change. You can tell he just isn’t used to losing.”

  “You really haven’t figured this out?” Shin called casually. “This again?”

  Harold growled, lightning crawling up his arms. He launched again—zigzagging erratically. But Shin didn’t panic, he didn’t have to.

  Harold, fast as he was, couldn’t track Shin while in lightning form. The problem was simple: speed without sight, power without precision.

  Once the path was chosen, he was locked in.

  Another bolt tore through the air. Shin sidestepped, spinning low and letting the crash land behind him.

  “You know, if you can’t turn,” Shin said mid-spin, violet energy flaring under his boots, “you’re just a flashier version of a cannonball.”

  “SHUT UP!”

  A furious roar—Harold ascended, then came down like actual lightning.

  Shin exhaled.

  He took a single step.

  Pivot. Twist. He turned sideways and let the bolt miss by inches.

  But this time, he didn’t let it end there.

  His arm went back.

  Power gathered. Plasma flared across his knuckles.

  As Harold reformed mid-air, eyes still unfocused—he saw Shin wind up.

  And in that breathless instant, Harold was certain: he was going to die.

  But death never came.

  Shin punched—controlled, fast, brutal—but held back. The impact exploded against Harold’s ribs, launching him across the training floor like a ragdoll. He skidded violently, tearing grooves into the tiles, but no real damage had been done.

  He lay there, groaning, pride more bruised than his body.

  Shin stood calmly, flexing his fingers once. “That’s why you’ll never win. You’re fast—faster than me, even—but you don’t see the fight. You throw yourself forward and pray I’m dumb enough to stand still.”

  Harold spat blood and dragged himself to a knee.

  “One day…”

  “Maybe,” Shin said, turning toward the exit. “But not soon.”

  —-

  The halls had quieted. Footsteps faded. Doors closed one by one.

  Shin moved slower now, hands deep in his pockets. His violet eyes, once bright with humor, were now dull—like they belonged to someone else.

  He entered his room and closed the door with a soft click.

  His smile vanished.

  He stared blankly at the far wall.

  “I’m so damn tired…”

  —-