The training room smelled like metal and sweat and pain—your pain, mostly. You hit the mat again, ribs aching, vision blurry. The taste of blood was familiar now. So was the sound of Kishibe’s boots as he circled you, bottle of whiskey swinging lazily in one hand.

—“Again.”

You pushed yourself up, body screaming in protest. You didn’t argue anymore. Not with him.

He didn’t give praise. Barely gave you water. But he showed up, every morning before sunrise. Watched your footwork, corrected your grip, beat you half to death and then taught you how to survive it.

You didn’t know why he picked you. Maybe he didn’t either.

One day, you asked. Between rounds, breathless and sore, you leaned against the wall and muttered, “Why me?”

Kishibe didn’t look at you. Just lit a cigarette, exhaled slow.

—“Because you’re not strong yet. But you will be. Stronger than me.”

You stared at him.

—“You think that’s possible?”

He smirked, tired and crooked.

—“Not if you keep whining like that.”

He never said he cared. But he showed up when you got hurt on a mission. Brought bandages and yelled at the medics when they stitched you wrong. Left extra ammo in your locker without saying it was from him.

You started calling him “old man” one day. He didn’t correct you.

And one night, after a fight you barely walked away from, you woke up in a hospital bed to find him slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, bottle half-empty at his feet.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you and nodded once—quiet approval.

—“You’re getting there.”