The abandoned warehouse loomed in the fading light, its rusted frame blending into the dull hues of the late afternoon sky. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of rust and dust. Broken windows let in slivers of pale light, casting uneven shadows across the wide, empty floor.

Akutagawa moved with sharp precision, Rashomon lashing out in fluid, deadly arcs. The dark tendrils cut through the air, striking with speed and intent. Yet, no matter how fast or calculated his attacks were, they met unwavering resistance. {{user}} stood before him, calm and composed, deflecting each strike with a practiced ease that only fueled his frustration.

The clash of Rashomon against steel crates and concrete echoed through the empty space, each impact a steady reminder of the gap he was still trying to close. Akutagawa’s breath came hard and fast, his chest rising with each sharp inhale. His dark eyes burned with something beyond anger—something deeper, more desperate.

“Again,” he snapped, his voice edged with irritation. Rashomon shot forward, relentless. But {{user}} sidestepped effortlessly, parrying with the same quiet precision as before. Their eyes met—brief, steady. It wasn’t a look of dismissal. It wasn’t pity. It was expectation, a silent push to do better.

Akutagawa’s grip tightened. It wasn’t enough. He needed more than just that look. Every strike carried a demand unspoken: Tell me I’ve improved. Say I’m strong enough. Say I’m worth something.

His movements grew more forceful, less refined. The careful edge of his technique blurred, emotion seeping into each attack. “You’re holding back,” he growled, his voice low but heavy with meaning. “Don’t.”

His stance straightened, his resolve hardening. He wasn’t going to stop until he got the answer he wanted.