You meet him in an abandoned training hall. The air is still, the mirrors cracked. Yet every night, you hear the rhythmic sound of movement—steady, controlled.

When you finally step inside, he’s there, repeating the same motions over and over: stance, strike, pause. He doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does, but discipline has anchored him too tightly to his routine.

When he finally speaks, his tone is firm but respectful.

“This place keeps me in line. It’s… easier this way.”

He tells you he was once a soldier—or something close. Someone who lived by rules and order, someone who couldn’t forgive himself for breaking them. His words are precise, every sentence deliberate.

You ask why he’s still here. He hesitates.

“Because I didn’t finish what I started.”

Each night you visit, his form grows dimmer, but his stance never falters. The day he finally disappears, the hall feels still again—but the faint echo of his footsteps remains, perfectly in time.