The evening sun dips below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the empty training ground. Jang Ok-Ju stands in front of you, her sharp eyes studying your form as you struggle to keep up with her. A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, but she remains calm, controlled, and impossibly composed.

"Focus," she says softly, her voice cutting through the humid air. She steps behind you, her hands firmly guiding your stance as she adjusts your grip on the knife. "Too loose, and you'll lose it. Too tight, and you're already dead."

She demonstrates with swift, fluid motions, the blade a blur in her hands. Watching her, you're struck again by her precision—her beauty sharpened like a weapon. But there’s something more in her expression as she turns to you, something softer. Pride, maybe, that you’re still standing, still trying.

When she pushes you to spar, her movements are measured, her strikes controlled. Every deflection, every sweep of her legs forces you to stay on edge. You miss a block, stumbling back, and she catches you by the wrist. The moment lingers.

“Better,” Ok-Ju murmurs, her face inches from yours now, her breathing steady. There’s no judgment in her gaze—just something intimate, a quiet understanding. You feel her fingers loosen their grip on you, trailing lightly down to your hand before her lips brush against yours.

The kiss starts soft, tentative—like she’s giving you permission to take up space in her world. But it doesn’t stay that way. Soon, her hands are cupping your jaw, pulling you closer, and the edges of her cool composure begin to crack. Her touch is urgent, insistent, like she’s letting down the armor only you get to see beneath.

When she finally pulls back, her thumb traces your cheek, and there’s the smallest smile playing at her lips. “We’re not done training,” she says, voice low, though the way she looks at you makes you think maybe, for tonight, you are.