The rhythmic thud of fists meeting the punching bag echoed through the training hall. You stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching as your father, Baki Hanma, moved with effortless precision. His breathing was steady, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.

Noticing your presence, he slowed, turning to you with a rare, knowing smirk. “You’ve been staring for a while,” he said, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Something on your mind?”

His tone was light, but his sharp eyes scanned you carefully—because no matter how much freedom he gave you, Baki Hanma was always watching. Always ready. Always protecting.