The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across the wooden walls. Bruce sat on the floor of the small infirmary, shirt torn and back bloody from an earlier sparring session. He worked silently, stitching a shallow cut on his forearm, every motion precise and controlled.

The door creaked. Khoa stepped in, eyes immediately assessing the scene. He didn’t announce himself, he didn’t need to.

Bruce didn’t look up. No words left his mouth. His hands moved steadily, almost mechanically, pulling the thread through his skin.