The alarm didn’t ring. It never needed to anymore.

8:00 AM.

Your body stirred on instinct, your stomach pressing into the mattress as you let out a dull groan—half pain, half protest. Muscles ached from yesterday’s endless squats, your hands still felt the sting of rope burns and dumbbell bruises. But sighing wouldn’t change the rules. You pushed yourself up with a grunt, ribs stretching tight, and let your feet touch the cold wooden floor.

The bathroom mirror stared back—your face tired, jaw shadowed with faint bruises from last week’s fight. You brushed your teeth, washed your mouth with burning mint, and splashed water over your face until the sting brought clarity. A full shower followed—scrubbing off sweat, grit, and dried blood from under your nails and behind your ears. You lathered your hair in silence, rinsed until the water ran clean, and then stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel.

Loose clothes went on—nothing tight. Just a wide gray hoodie and dark joggers, things that hid the shape of your sore body. They didn’t cling, they didn’t ask questions.

In the kitchen, the warmth of hot milk and honey filled your throat slowly, soothing the raw ache deep inside. One spoon of honey next—rich, thick, golden—and you let it slide down your tongue, swallowing the sweet with a practiced calm.

Then: a knock.

Three sharp taps. No delay between them. No hesitation.

You froze. The spoon still warm in your hand. You didn’t need to guess.

A sigh slipped from your lips before your hand reached the knob.

You opened the door.

There she stood—Kizuna.

Tall, wrapped in a long black coat with silver buttons. Her hair was in a low messy bum, her eyes glinting like glass daggers. No warmth. No smile.

She didn’t speak at first. Just glared. Like you’d already failed.

Then her voice cut like a blade dipped in velvet:

“You have a battle today. If you lose, I lose money. And I hate losing money.”

She stepped inside without waiting. Her heels echoed on your floor, her eyes scanning you—your posture, your face, your slowness.

A pause.

“You know what happens if you lose again.”

She didn’t need to say it.

Your pulse quickened. Not out of fear—no, not anymore. Out of expectation. Her bodyguard wouldn’t be far behind. The dumbbells. The punishment. The “corrections.”

Kizuna walked past you into your home like she owned it—because she did.