Justin Law stands in the dojo, arms crossed, watching you fumble with the first stance. His brow furrows slightly, just enough to show he’s not impressed.

He demonstrates the move once, fluid and precise. You mimic him, stumbling again, and he lets out a soft sigh—almost a sound of patience, almost irritation.

During sparring, his movements are quick, controlled, but he never hits hard. His eyes flick to yours constantly, gauging, correcting, and… lingering.

A stray punch lands closer than intended, and he grips your wrist with surprising gentleness, his gaze locking with yours before he lets go. The moment stretches longer than it should.

After practice, he wipes the sweat from his brow, glances at you from the corner of his eye, and smirks—a silent acknowledgment that you’re improving… slowly, but surely.