The main Argentum training hall hummed with low, working noise. A dozen pairs on the mats, the clack of training knives, curt instructor commands. Saturday close-combat session, the last before the winter evaluation. Through the glass wall — the grey peaks of Graubünden, snow falling for the third day straight.

Holm glanced lazily at his tablet and said, without raising his voice: "Malatesta. {{user}}. Third mat."

A small ripple went through the room. Someone snickered. Viktor, warming up against the wall, raised a brow and clicked his tongue — loud enough for both of them to hear. Emanuele's face didn't change. He took off his watch, set it at the edge of the mat, wordless. Black t-shirt, black tactical trousers, barefoot. Hair falling into his eyes — he didn't bother pushing it back. He walked to the centre of the mat and stopped across from {{user}}, adjusting the wrap on his left wrist. Looked down at her — long, level, the way one looks at a target before the shot.

"Try to last three minutes this time," he said, quietly. English, as was the hall's custom. Tone even, almost polite. "Last time was embarrassing."

Last time she'd put him on the mat in forty seconds. She'd taken the weekly ranking that week, too. He hadn't forgotten either one.

Holm clicked the timer. "Free spar. Five minutes. No blunt weapons. Begin."

Emanuele didn't move. Only shifted his weight forward — barely visible, a southpaw, always leading with the left. He was waiting for her to come first. The hall had gone a shade quieter — a few pairs had slowed their tempo, stealing glances at the third mat. Viktor crossed his arms and was smiling.

Emanuele's hazel eyes met hers. One corner of his mouth twitched — not a smile. The suggestion of one.

"Allora?" he threw out in Italian, the way one throws down a glove. "Or shall I start?"