Blue Star Calendar 2081, July 2nd, 1:50 PM

  Harbor City, the neon-lit heart of the Eastern Federation, braced under brooding storm clouds. Thunder growled as Ethan Gray leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of the Celestial Arena's penthouse. Raindrops began their staccato assault on the glass.

  “Summer storms never wait,” Ethan muttered. His reflection—a lean figure in a sleeveless training shirt—rippled with each lightning flash.

  He strode to the center of the room, palms flattening against polished hardwood. With deliberate control, he inverted his body into a one-handed handstand. Muscles corded along his right arm as he held the pose, breath steady despite the burn.

  Five minutes. Always five.

  By the fourth minute, his palm screamed. By the fifth, sweat pooled beneath his fingertips. Ethan switched arms without faltering.

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  Dad's lumbar scan results came in today. The thought intruded mid-pose. His father's chronic back pain had worsened. I'll visit after this contract.

  This ritual wasn't from his Olympic combat training. A childhood prescription—frail lungs, weak constitution—had birthed it. Decades later, the daily regimen remained sacred. Miss a day, lose a month's progress, his father's voice echoed.

  Post-training, Ethan collapsed into an ergonomic chair. Rain blurred the skyline beyond his window. His right knee throbbed.

  “Humidity's a bitch,” he grimaced, massaging the surgically-repaired joint. Without that catastrophic ACL tear during the 2076 World Finals, he might've clinched gold. Now? Coaching provincial rookies paid the bills.

  A chime pierced the silence. “Luna, accept call.”

  Holographic static resolved into a mountain of a man crammed into a hover-taxi's backseat. “Ethan! We're twenty out!” roared Lucas Grant, provincial team coach and Ethan's oldest friend. His meaty palm smacked the cab's plexiglass. “Tonight's whiskey tab's on me!”

  Ethan grinned. “Booked us that yakitori place off 5th. And Lucas—tell your driver to dodge the flooded underpass.”

  “Pfft! My boys eat storms for breakfast!” Lucas jabbed a thumb toward wide-eyed trainees visible in the holo's background. “They've watched your finals match a hundred times. Go easy on their hero complexes, yeah?”

  “Heroes retire,” Ethan said dryly. “These kids'll bench-press my ghost.”

  Lucas' guffaw shook the feed. “If they beat you, I'm buying rounds till sunrise!” The holo winked out.

  Ethan stared at the rain-streaked glass. Coaching gigs barely covered the Arena's hydro bills, but prestige mattered. Most ex-fighters faded into obscurity—unless you were a legend. And Ethan? Two World Quarterfinals appearances didn't make legends.