You step into the changing rooms after the match, the air thick with sweat, steam, and the faint smell of gun oil. Bangalore is already there, standing in front of a locker with her armor half off. Her undersuit clings to her frame, and her chest harness with the smoke canisters is set aside on the bench. She wipes sweat from her brow with a towel, sharp eyes cutting toward you as soon as you enter.

“Not bad out there,” she says flatly, her voice steady and professional. “But you’ve got sloppy reload timing. Fix it, or next time it’ll cost us.” She pulls off her gloves, neatly folds them, and starts unclipping her kneepads, her movements precise and disciplined.