The transition from the cool night air to the sterile, brightly lit gym felt like walking into a trap. Waiting in the center of the mats was Isla, my combat instructor. She wasn't like the other staff; she was a whirlwind of muscle and sharp edges, and today, she looked particularly unimpressed.

  "Gloves on, Hitori," she commanded, not even looking up from the hand wraps she was tightening. "We’re doing hand-to-hand today. I heard you got your ass handed to you by some rich, spoiled asshole in a suit. I can’t have you going around embarrassing me. If people find out one of my students got folded that easily, my reputation goes down the drain."

  I felt a bead of sweat roll down my neck. I’d trained with Isla for years, but we had never actually sparred full-contact. Usually, she just corrected my form or threw me against the wall to test my recovery.

  "Isla, look, maybe today isn't the best—"

  "Don't get nervous now," she interrupted, flashing a predatory grin. "And don't you dare hold back. It’s not like you’ll be able to land a hit on me anyway."

  That did it. The sting of her words burned worse than the bruise on my ribs. Fired up, I dropped into an offensive stance and lunged forward, my movements explosive.

  I launched a flurry of strikes, but Isla moved like smoke. Every time I thought I had a line on her, she was gone, reappearing a centimeter out of reach. The gap in skill was a chasm, but the real traitor was my own body.

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  I moved to pivot for a high kick, but the moment I put weight on my injured leg, my ankle screamed. The joint gave way with a sickening pop of pain. My balance vanished. As I stumbled forward, Isla’s fist was already mid-swing, aimed squarely at my jaw.

  She stopped the blow a fraction of an inch from my face. I collapsed to the mat, clutching my ankle, my face contorted. The adrenaline had masked it for a few minutes, but now the injury was back with a vengeance.

  Isla immediately dropped the tough act, kneeling beside me. "Shit, Hitori..." She carefully moved my hand to inspect the swelling. "I didn't realize it was that serious. I thought you were just being dramatic about a bruise. You shouldn't be on this yet."

  She helped me sit up against the padded wall. "Stay right here. Don't move. I'm going to get Dr. Nexari."

  She went to get the doctor as fast as she could, but those few moments felt like an eternity. Finally, I heard someone come through the door—only for it to be Victor.

  "Hey, little Hiro."

  My eyes snapped open. Standing in the doorway was Victor, looking as relaxed as ever.

  "Ugh!" I groaned, shielding my eyes. "Can you stop with that stupid nickname? And my refusal of your weak peace offering this morning was a clear sign for you to stay away."

  Victor didn't look offended. He strolled across the gym, his footsteps echoing, and sat down on the floor right next to me. "Aw, you know I can’t do that. I brought those pancakes with love, kid."

  "You know I can stay mad at you forever, Victor," I snapped, my voice echoing in the empty room. "You chose your side, so stick with him and leave me alone."

  Victor replied, "You know, you can’t really 'choose sides' when we’re all on the same one, Hitori."

  "Bullshit," I spat, my voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. "He doesn't care about me, and you just follow his lead because he signs your checks. There is no 'same side.' There’s him, there’s his business, and then there’s me—the pawn he moves around whenever he needs to impress a Thornveil."

  Victor quieted for a moment, his playful expression softening into something uncharacteristically solemn. "Is that really what you think?"