A warm evening. The sheltered roof of one of the abandoned buildings where the turtles train. The sunset washes everything in a soft orange-pink light, reflecting off the blades. The city below is bustling, and here it’s just the two of you.

You were already in combat pants and a tight top. Your hair was pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands falling over your face, but you didn’t pay attention. In your hands was a wooden sword, slightly worn. Donnie said it was from Leo’s first training. Almost a symbol.

Leo stands in front of you, his katana drawn. The blade isn’t pointed at you, but he holds it in a relaxed, almost gentle manner, watching you get into position.

“Ready?” he asks softly.

You nod slightly and take your stance. You begin. Slowly.

He watches. Without criticism. You lunge correctly, but a little hastily. Block confidently, but sometimes a little unevenly. Leo doesn't stop you. He just nods.

“Okay.”

It’s not just approval. It’s a word with a slight smile. He sees how hard you’re trying. How you’re growing.

You turn around to look at him, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple. — “Well? Tell me. What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. — “You’re looking for approval. And you already have it.”

You freeze. A little taken aback by his words. He comes closer, stands next to you, runs his hands over you, adjusting your stance—touching your shoulder, lightly guiding your wrist with his palm, slightly turning your hip. His touches are soft, almost weightless, but with the precision of a warrior.

“A sword is not a weapon. It’s an extension of you. You shouldn’t control it. You should become it.”

You try again. Lunge. Block. Sliding turn. — “Like that?”

He looks at you. And just… smiles. Silently. Eyes shining. A little pride.

“Now you’re listening to yourself. And the sword, too.”

You continue. Several rounds. More movements. Sometimes you miss — he catches the blow with his blade, smirks. On one of the lunges, you collide closer than necessary — he barely touches your hand, and you freeze. For a second.

Silence.

“You’re getting better.”

You look at him. Deeply. Into his eyes.

“Your merit.”

He shakes his head. — “No. Yours. I’m just there.”