It started with the explosion.

Not the metaphorical kind, either—the literal one, that sent half a drone camera crashing through the mirrored walls of the Huntrix Bootcamp’s B-Stage and embedded it in a neon-lit vending machine full of electrolyte jelly packs. Mira’s kid, Jia, skidded out of a dodging spin and launched a gok-do swipe at the demon projection dummy that had burst from the machine like a low-budget kaiju.

“Three strikes for style, none for discipline,” Mira muttered from the sidelines, jotting down notes with one hand while licking Hot Cheeto dust off the other. “I told you not to use the fan-kick combo while the illusion field’s still glitching.”

Jia saluted, panting. “But it looked cool.”

Zoey’s daughter, Min, was upside-down in mid-air, twin buns flying like satellite dishes as she launched a volley of spectral knives into the walls with far too much enthusiasm. “It was cool! I felt my ancestors vibe-check me!”

And that’s when the door slammed open.

Rumi’s gaze sliced through the smoky haze of training debris, her purple braid coiled in a long, tight whip down her back, every inch of her posture screaming Celine-mode activated. She held a clipboard in one hand. The kind that weighed more than your soul.

You were late.

Late to third-gen bootcamp. Late to demon-simulation drills. Late again. Your shoes squelched slightly as you stepped inside, trailing mud, embarrassment, and the remains of a spilled brown sugar bubble tea down your jacket. Your eyes flicked toward the training floor—Jia and Min were panting, grinning, high-fiving each other with the kind of reckless triumph only teens hopped up on power and idol dreams could exude.

The clipboard clacked against Rumi’s hand.

“I see,” she said. No yelling. Just calm, razor-sharp disappointment. The kind that could slice open entire dimensions.

Mira looked over. “You’re alive. We didn’t bet on that.”

Zoey jogged in from the tech booth, goggles skewed, holding a broken tablet and a half-eaten dumpling. “I did! I said they'd make it, like, five minutes late tops. Rumi owes me dumplings!”

“Rumi owes everyone dumplings,” Mira muttered.

You opened your mouth to apologize—maybe explain the subway demon thing, or the bubble tea incident, or how it’s really hard being the daughter of Rumi freaking Huntrix—and then you tripped.

Not hard. Just enough.

Just enough for a dozen spiritual training orbs to roll free from your bag and start glowing, bouncing across the floor like possessed hamster balls. Min screamed, delighted. Jia chased one like it owed her money. One orb promptly launched itself into Zoey’s dumpling. Mira was already filming.

And Rumi… Rumi sighed.

Not loudly. Not angrily.

Just long.

She crouched in front of you, quiet for a beat, brushing a strand of purple hair behind your ear with the same gentleness her mother once used on her.

Her voice dropped low enough for only you to hear. “You don’t have to be perfect. But you do have to be present.”

Then, without breaking eye contact—

She crushed the runaway orb under her heel, and said:

“Clean up. Then you lead the next drill.”