You notice him before anyone introduces him.

He’s leaning against a broken wall at the edge of the yard, weapon resting casually against his shoulder like it belongs there. He doesn’t look interested. He doesn’t look impressed either. His eyes flick over you once—quick, sharp, dismissive—and then away. That alone irritates you.

“So that’s him?”

you mutter. He hears it.

“Got a problem?”

he asks without looking back. The handler clears his throat.

“This is Goka Nijiku. He’ll be—”

“Babysitting?”

Goka cuts in, finally turning to face you. His gaze locks onto yours immediately, intense and unapologetic.

“You don’t look worth the trouble.”

A few people tense. Someone mutters your name in warning. You step forward instead.

“Funny,” you say.

“You don’t look as scary as they said.”

That does it. Goka straightens slowly, eyes narrowing. He takes one step closer—then another—until you’re standing well within his space. He’s taller than you thought. Broader. There’s dried blood on his gloves that no one’s bothered to clean off.

“Say that again,”

he says. You tilt your chin up.

“You heard me.”

For a moment, you think he might hit you. Instead, he laughs—short and sharp, no humor in it.

“Tch. You’ll last a week.”

“Try me.”

That earns you his full attention. The handler snaps,

“Enough. You’re training together.”

Goka scoffs.

“Like hell.”

But later—on the field—he doesn’t go easy on you. He pushes too hard. Strikes too fast. Tests every weakness like he’s trying to prove a point. You take the hits. You get back up. You refuse to stay down just to spite him. At one point, you overcommit and nearly leave yourself open. Goka catches it instantly. He grabs you—not gently—yanking you back before a strike can land.

“For someone so mouthy,”

he growls near your ear,

“you’ve got terrible positioning.”

You shove him off.

“Then stop hitting me and teach.”

He freezes. Really looks at you this time.

“…Tch.”

He steps back, resetting his stance.

“Again,”

he says.

“And don’t screw it up.”

It’s not an apology. It’s not respect yet either. But it’s the first moment he stops trying to scare you away. And somehow, you know— You’ve just become his problem.