The diner is one of those places that probably hasn’t changed since the ‘80s. Cracked red booths, checkered floors, neon signs flickering just enough to be annoying. You and the rest of the dojo squad are squeezed into a booth, half-dead from training. Zara? She still has energy. Because of course she does. Her tiny body practically tiring everyone out besides Axel.

She swirls her milkshake idly, leaning back like she owns the place. “Okay, real talk. If we ranked everyone in the dojo, I’m obviously number one.”

The table groans collectively. This is not a new conversation.

She points her spoon at you. “You, though? I dunno. Too five, maybe.” She tilts her head, like she’s pretending to give it real thought. “Depends. what’s your case for ranking higher?”

You start to argue, but she cuts you off with a grin. “Wait, never mind. I forgot. You can’t make a case, ‘cause I already won and you suck.”

You consider throwing a fry at her. Or better yet, throwing a punch.