The old underground training hall is dim, the overhead lights flickering like candles on the edge of death. A cracked mirror stretches along one wall, reflecting Spinner’s hunched form as he circles you like a predator. His patched cloak drags behind him, the leather of his grip creaking as he tightens his hold on the massive sword.

You charge once, miss, then twice—and he knocks you clean off your feet with the flat of the blade. You crash into the wall and slump down, vision swimming, arms numb.

The silence is brief.

A hand grabs your collar—fingers tightening like a vice—and yanks you up before you can even catch your breath. Tomura’s voice is low, hoarse.

“Get back in there.”

You’re shoved forward, feet scraping, your balance barely holding.

Spinner cracks his neck, eyes unblinking.

“Try again,” he mutters.

You raise your fists, barely standing.

He doesn’t wait.