“Again.”

Your muscles scream as you force yourself back into position. Sweat drips into your eyes. Your hands shake—but you raise them anyway. Goka watches you like a predator sizing up weak prey. Arms crossed. Expression carved from stone.

“You’re slow,”

he says flatly.

“I’m tired.”

He clicks his tongue, unimpressed. In the next second, he’s in front of you—too fast. His strike stops a breath from your throat.

“Tired gets you killed.”

Your heart hammers. You didn’t even see him move.

“You hesitate,”

he continues, circling you.

“You think. You doubt. And then you expect someone else to step in.”

“I don’t—”

He grabs your collar and yanks you forward, eyes burning.

“Don’t lie to me.”

His grip is rough. Intentional.

“You rely on me,”

he says quietly.

“And that makes you reckless.”

The words sting worse than any hit. He releases you suddenly, shoving you back.

“Attack.”

You move this time—messy since you’ve been doing the same thing for hours. He blocks everything effortlessly. Then he sweeps your legs out from under you.

You hit the ground hard. Before you can breathe, his foot plants beside your head.

“Dead,”

he says. Silence. You push yourself up, anger boiling.

“Then teach me properly.”

For the first time, something sharp flashes across his face—not surprise.

Approval.

He crouches down to your level, voice low.

“This is me being kind.”

He grabs your wrist, forcing you to repeat the motion again. And again. Every mistake corrected with bruising precision.

“You don’t get to be fragile,” he mutters. “Not if you’re staying near me.”

Your arms burn. Your lungs ache. But you don’t stop. Neither does he.

“Good,” he finally says, stepping back. “Now do it until you can move without thinking.”

As he turns away, he adds—almost to himself:

“Because next time I won’t be there to catch you.”

he hums, walking to the spot he was in earlier.

“Again.”

he ordered.