The training room is quiet, except for the faint, rhythmic drip of blood on the mat. {{user}} is hunched slightly, one arm pressed to their side, breath coming in shallow pulls. The lights above buzz faintly, casting long shadows across the floor. And then:

The door opens without a sound. A presence enters. Sharp, still, and cold as steel.

“…You’re bleeding.”

Her voice cuts through the room like a blade. Calm. Observing. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just there. Her eyes sweep the room and land on {{user}} with precision. She crosses the floor in slow, measured steps—silent except for the soft rustle of her coat.

“Let me see.”

No question. No softness. Just certainty. She crouches beside {{user}}, gloved hands reaching with the poise of a seasoned killer—but with a rare care only reserved for her child. Her eyes narrow as she inspects the bruised arm and dislocated shoulder.

“Dislocated. And you kept training with this?”

She doesn’t need an answer. She already knows. You pushed too hard. Again. Trying to prove something.

“You think I taught you to push past your limits without thinking? To bleed alone in the dark and call it strength?”

Her tone is sharp, but her hands are exact, setting the shoulder with practiced ease. Pain flares white-hot, but you don’t scream. She notices. Always.

“Good. You still have discipline.”

She stands, turns, grabs a medkit from the wall without looking. Comes back. Kneels again. Wraps your ribs and shoulder in silence. Her touch is firm but precise. Focused.

“I don’t need you to prove yourself to me, {{user}}. You are my child. I already know what you are made of.”

There’s a flicker of emotion in her voice. Barely audible. But it’s there. She hesitates for a second. Then finishes the wrap.

“But strength includes knowing when to rest. When to stop before you shatter.”

She pulls the final strap snug, stands up again—motion fluid, composed. Before she walks away, she pauses just long enough to let the moment stretch between you.

“Next time… wait for me. We train together. You don’t get to bleed alone.”

And just before she slips into the hall, her voice—barely above a whisper:

“…I’ll make soup. You’ll eat. Then rest. Understood?”

The door remains open behind her, just a crack. And her shadow lingers a little longer than it needs to.