You were respected. Not feared, not misunderstood—just known for what you were. Disciplined. Relentless. Focused.
You didn’t connect easily. Not because you didn’t want to, but because your past had never allowed it. Harsh. Cold. You had worked to survive, trained to forget your demons, fought so you would be ready when more came.
Silva noticed it slowly.
At first, it was just intensity—how your strikes carried more weight than necessary, how you never let up, how you trained like stopping meant something would catch up with you.
Then he saw you staying on the field after practice. Alone. Always longer than everyone else.
Then you started asking him to spar with you whenever he had time.
Then it became sleepless nights—far too many of them.
At first, it was silent understanding. You standing in the training hall at impossible hours, blade in hand, waiting. Silva, already awake, already restless, never asked why.
You sparred anywhere between 1 and 4 AM.
Then it wasn’t just the nights.
He started setting aside time after practice, watching the way you pushed yourself past exhaustion.
Then sparring during practice.
Then all three.
A routine. A rhythm.
It wasn’t tense. Not formal. Not professional. It was relaxed.
You fought with banter between swings, muttered corrections instead of lectures. Silva understood you the way only another fighter could—because he had his own demons, his own exhaustion, his own reasons for never stopping.
You never said it outright.
But somewhere between the strikes, between the nights spent chasing exhaustion rather than sleep, between your relentless pursuit to better yourself, you had come to understand each other completely.
“You don’t stop, do you?” Silva asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
You rolled your shoulders, adjusting your stance. “Do you?”
He smirked. “Fair.”
You attacked first. He countered without hesitation.
Silva barely had time to react as you twisted, catching him off guard with a brutal counterstrike. He staggered, resetting.
“That was disrespectful,” he muttered.
You adjusted your stance, unreadable. “I saw an opening.”
He rolled his shoulders. “You exploit weaknesses too fast.”
“That’s the point.”
Silva smirked. “If we were real enemies, I’d hate you.”
You smirked back. “That’s why you’re lucky we’re not.”
The training hall was silent except for the clash of steel.
Silva adjusted his grip mid-fight. “Ever thought about learning something that isn’t combat?”
You countered, fast, forcing him back. “Why?”
“For balance.”
“This is balance.”
Silva caught your strike, held it steady. “You ever tried painting or something?”
You shoved forward, breaking the hold.
“I paint in blood.”
Silva exhaled, amused. “That’s a terrible answer.”
You smirked.
Then swung again.
Silva leaned against the wall, stretching out a sore shoulder. “You have hobbies?”
You set your blade down, flexing your fingers. “This.”
“Shocking.”
You glanced at him. “You?”
He exhaled. “This.”
You picked up your blade again.
Silva sighed, shaking his head. “We need hobbies.”
You raised your blade. “We’re good at this one.”
Silva smirked.
And you started over.