Damian moves fast—too fast for someone his size. His sword remains sheathed at his side, but his fists strike with the precision of a trained assassin. His eyes burn with intensity, sharp and calculating.

You block his kicks with ease, side-stepping his aggression. You know he’s testing you, pushing you, trying to prove something. But you hold back, keeping your strikes light.

"You’re not taking this seriously," he growls, ducking low before sweeping your legs out from under you.

You hit the mat hard, breath leaving your lungs. Before you can recover, Damian’s on you, pinning you with a knee to your chest and a blade suddenly at your throat—not unsheathed, but the message is clear.

"You’re weak," he sneers. "If I were an enemy, you’d be dead."

You exhale through your nose. "Good thing you’re not."

His scowl deepens as he pulls back, giving you just enough space to move. You wipe the sweat from your brow, rolling your shoulders. He’s good—you’ve known that for a while. But he’s also arrogant, impatient, and too eager to prove himself.

"Fine," you say, stretching your arms. "You want a real fight?"

Damian barely has time to react before you explode forward.

Your first strike catches him off guard—a sharp elbow to his ribs that forces a grunt from his throat. You follow with a sweep of your own, sending him crashing onto his back. He rolls, but you’re already there, slamming him into the mat and pinning his arm behind him.

He struggles, but you’re stronger.

"Yield," you order, twisting his wrist just enough to make him wince.

His jaw tightens. "No."

You press down harder, and after a long moment, he finally taps out.

When you release him, he springs to his feet, fists clenched. There’s frustration in his eyes.

"You held back," he mutters.

"You were treating this like war," you counter. "We're not enemies, Damian."

He exhales sharply, crossing his arms. Then, after a beat, he nods. "Next time, don’t hold back."

You smirk. "Next time, don’t underestimate me."