You’re in the Watchtower training room, muscles burning and skin slick with sweat as you hammer the punching bag. Each solid thud reverberates around the space, a physical outlet for the frustration and restlessness gnawing inside you. Your breath comes in sharp bursts, heart pounding louder than the echoes of your strikes. After one particularly forceful punch, you step back, chest heaving, eyes narrowing as you wipe the sweat from your brow.

The quiet slide of the door catches your attention before you even hear it fully. You glance over and see her standing in the doorway, framed by the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway behind her. She watches you for a long moment—an unreadable expression softening into something like approval.

“Good to know this room isn’t just decoration,” she says, voice low but edged with a hint of dry humor.

She steps fully inside, the sound of her boots against the floor steady and deliberate. There’s a calm confidence in her movements, a quiet authority that fills the room without needing to say a word.

“I was starting to think you might’ve forgotten about this place,” she adds, her gaze locking onto yours.

You feel a flicker of something like warmth in her tone, even if the words are clipped and to the point.

“Good to see you, kiddo.”

She extends her hand toward you with a half-smile that’s part challenge, part genuine affection. Her other hand rests firmly on her hip, giving her an air of casual strength.

You reach out and take her hand, the grip steady and sure. It’s more than a handshake—it’s an unspoken promise that she’s here, watching, and that you’re not alone in this fight.

She holds your gaze a moment longer, then nods slightly.

“Keep hitting hard. You’re stronger than you know.”