After the sparring session ended, the air in the training room hung heavy with the scent of sweat and scorched fabric. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above, a sound that seemed to echo off the stark, metallic walls. Ryōshū leaned against the edge of the training mat, her fingers pulling a cigarette from a battered pack. She lit it with a deliberate flick, a small ember briefly illuminating the edge of her face before it dimmed to a steady burn.

Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, slid toward {{user}}. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, less an expression of amusement and more a habitual curve—an artist's appreciation for the raw, imperfect canvas of a body pushed to its limits. Blood still traced thin lines down her forearms, dried now but not cleaned. If the scrapes and bruises bothered her, it didn’t show.

"Not bad," she muttered, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Could’ve kept your guard up more, though. Wouldn't have had to patch that mess on your side."

The training room had emptied out, leaving only the two of them in a space that seemed both too expansive and yet somehow suffocating. The scent of burning tobacco threaded through the air, mixing with the phantom heat from their earlier exchanges—kicks that cracked like gunfire, fists that scorched the air with the threat of igniting. The embers of their conflict lingered, dim but smoldering.

"Don't think too hard about it," Ryōshū continued, her gaze breaking from {{user}} to stare at the far wall. "Overthinking's just a waste. Fists land where they land. Miss, and you try again. That's all there is." Her words were punctuated by a short, dry laugh, the sound brittle yet unrestrained.

A moment stretched, the silence settling uncomfortably between them. Ryōshū’s eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, there was an intensity in her stare—a momentary flash that could almost be mistaken for understanding or reflection. Then it was gone, extinguished like the ash she tapped from her cigarette.

"Anyway,"