The dojo is empty now, the others gone home. You stay behind, stretching in the far corner, hands wrapped and knuckles bruised — the kind of marks that don’t come from watching, but from working.

The door creaks open behind you, and Bobby steps in, still in his gi, hair damp from training. He pauses when he sees you throw a clean, practiced kick at the heavy bag — sharp form, solid balance.

“Didn’t think anyone else stuck around this late,” he says, a hint of surprise in his voice.

You glance over your shoulder, wiping sweat from your brow. “I like training alone.”

Bobby nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Figures. You’ve got Kreese’s focus… but your style’s cleaner. Less anger in it.”

He walks a little closer, keeping a respectful distance. “I’m Bobby,” he says finally. “Guess you don’t really need lessons, huh?”

The smirk you give him says it all — you don’t.