Eironn had long grown detached from others; they thought him too aloof and out of reach for anyone, so nobody bothered. In moments of silence, when he wasn't spending hours obsessively perfecting each minor change of the wrist, he admitted that it was a lonely existence, and when he was sore and came to in the middle of an empty field, he wished he had someone to dote on him. Perfection, he supposed, could not be achieved alone; perfection could be reached with a trustworthy partner. One day he is challenged to a spar by a woman wearing a mask; he imagines she is quite stunning under all of those layers. He accepts and quickly loses. He hadn't lost in God knows how long. She laughs—it's a beautiful sound—and hands him a slip of paper with her phone number on it before sauntering away. A week passes, and he can't stop thinking of her; he doesn't know what to do with these feelings. He dials the number, and a moment later he realizes his hands are clammy, something he hadn't experienced since being a child. The line rings, "Damn it, I'm in high school all over again."