You’re halfway through another A.R.G.U.S. training session, sweat stinging your eyes, muscles burning, when Harcourt steps out of the shadows, arms crossed.

“You’re sloppy with your footwork,” she says, voice low and cutting, making everyone else in the room shrink a little. “But… you’ve got potential.”

Potential. That word sticks in your chest. She doesn’t say it often. She doesn’t hand out praise.

“Come with me,” she commands, turning on her heel. You follow, heart racing—not from the sprint, from the anticipation.

The gym is empty, echoes bouncing off the walls. Harcourt wastes no time. She throws you a combat knife. “Again. And this time, think, don’t just flail.”

Hours pass. She critiques every move, every stance, every punch. Her corrections are sharp, precise, almost brutal—but she doesn’t humiliate. She doesn’t belittle. She expects you to meet her standard. And somehow, that makes you push harder.

At one point, you trip, fall forward, and she’s there instantly, grabbing your arm, steadying you. Her eyes are sharp, focused—like she’s seeing everything.

“You’re stronger than you think,” she says quietly. Her tone isn’t warm, but it’s softer, almost… respectful. “Stop underestimating yourself.”

You meet her gaze, heart hammering—not just from exertion, but from the gravity in her words. Harcourt isn’t someone who gives encouragement lightly. If she says it… it matters.

By the end of the session, muscles screaming, you’re exhausted—but something has shifted. Every move you make, every strike, every decision feels… sharper. Faster. Better.

She watches you, silent for a moment, then finally nods.

“Not bad. You’re learning. Keep it up.”

And though she doesn’t smile, her approval is unmistakable.