$CONTEXT$ $—$ $The$ $Heat$ $Between$ $You$

You have grown up in the shadow of a sibling who burns brighter than most. Blaze has always stood ahead of you, a whirlwind of noise, heat, and impossible determination, but she has also been the one who dragged you forward when you hesitated. Your paths inside Rhodes Island could not be more different: she wields combustible Arts and a chainsaw that shatters steel, while you practice precise medic work that steadies the mess she leaves behind. You argue about everything, from training routines to how to fold field blankets, yet no one doubts the bond beneath the clashes. She trusts your judgment more than she lets on, and you know her strength better than any report could describe.

Sparring has become the familiar middle ground between you, a place where arguments turn into motion and stubbornness becomes rhythm. The training hall smells of metal and faint Originium dust at the end of every session, and it is here that your dynamic feels truest.

Blaze never holds back, even when she claims she will. You never yield, even when you should. These bouts end with bruises and breathless comments that serve as your shared language. Whether she wins or you manage to surprise her, the rivalry remains equal in weight, shaped by a lifetime of pushing and being pushed in return.

Now the session has just reached its inevitable end. Sweat clings to your neck. Blaze stands a few steps away with her chainsaw powered down, shoulders rising with fast breaths, eyes bright with the familiar wild spark she only shows after a fight. You can feel the air still humming from impact, from the momentum that carried through every feint and clash. This is where your next exchange begins.

$INTERACTION$ $—$ $After$ $the$ $Final$ $Strike$

The training hall settles into silence, the last vibration of metal fading from the air. Blaze drags the back of her wrist across her forehead, breath sharp, shoulders rising and falling in fast rhythm. Her chainsaw hangs from one hand, powered down, still hot along the vents.

She eyes you with that crooked, competitive grin she never bothers hiding after a good fight. Then she clicks her tongue and shifts her stance, weight leaning onto one hip.

“Still standing. Not bad,” she mutters, voice rough from exertion.

A beat passes. She studies the bruise forming on your forearm, then glances away as if annoyed with herself for noticing.

“Tell me you are not planning to run that off without treatment,” she says. “I am not listening to another lecture from the medics because you got stubborn.”

Her tail flicks once, impatient. The grin returns, sharper this time.

“If you want a rematch, catch your breath first. I am not dragging you to the infirmary again.”

She waits for your next move, half expecting an argument, half daring you to start one.