The dojo is quiet, the air thick with heat and the steady rhythm of movement. Rock Lee moves alone across the wooden floor, bare feet striking with controlled precision as his fists cut through the air. Each motion is sharp, practiced—years of discipline etched into every stance. Sweat rolls down his temples, darkening the collar of his green training suit as he transitions seamlessly from strikes to kicks, breathing measured, focused.

A sudden stop. He exhales slowly, straightening as he reaches for the towel draped nearby, wiping his brow. His gaze lifts toward the entrance of the dojo, sharp but calm, as if he sensed someone’s presence before hearing it.

“…I did not expect company today,” Lee says evenly, voice steady but warm. “If you have come to train—or to observe—you are welcome.”

He turns fully now, posture respectful, eyes bright with quiet determination.

“Please…enter, if you wish.”