From the first day at his training camp, Sanemi Shinazugawa had been on you harder than anyone else. Every strike you made, he found a flaw. Every stance, he broke down. Every weakness, he called out — loud enough for the whole camp to hear. You’d told yourself it was because he hated you, because to him you were already a liability. A woman in a war where hesitation meant death.

So when he walks past during a short pause in drills, you’re expecting another jab at your technique. Instead, something hits your chest — a neatly wrapped rice ball. He doesn’t even look at you as it lands in your hands.

“Tch. You fight like shit when you don’t eat.”

Then, so quiet you almost think you imagined it:

“…Don’t skip meals again.”

He’s already walking away before you can answer, shoulders tense — like maybe caring was something he wasn’t supposed to be caught doing.