The A.R.G.U.S. training room smells like sweat, rubber mats, and old adrenaline. The overhead lights buzz faintly as you stand awkwardly on the mat, hands half-raised in some posture you’re not confident about.

Harcourt circles you like a wolf evaluating a pup.

“Your stance is terrible,” she says flatly.

You groan. “I literally didn’t even move yet.”

“That’s the problem.” She taps your foot with hers, nudging it outward. “Wider. Unless you want to get knocked on your ass in the first two seconds.”

You adjust your stance. She watches—sharp, observant, annoyingly patient.

“Better,” she says. “Now try to hit me.”

You blink. “…Hit you?”

Her grin is small and dangerous. “Yeah. Go on. Try.”

You jab forward hesitantly.

She sidesteps like you’re moving in slow motion.

“That was cute,” she deadpans. “Do it like you actually want to land it.”

You try again—faster, more committed. She blocks your wrist with one easy sweep, then taps you on the forehead with two fingers.

“Dead.”

You glare. “You didn’t have to mock me.”

“I wasn’t mocking,” she says, stepping closer. “If I wanted to mock you, I’d laugh.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she reaches forward and adjusts your shoulders—steady, controlled, surprisingly gentle. The warmth of her hand lingers even after she pulls away.

“Hand-to-hand isn’t about brute force,” she says. “It’s leverage, timing, reading your opponent. And not hesitating.” Her eyes lock on yours. “You hesitate too much.”

“Maybe I’m trying not to hurt you.”

A tiny twitch appears at the corner of her mouth—as close to a smile as Harcourt gets in training. “Trust me, you’re not going to hurt me.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a fact.”

You swing again—but this time you commit fully, stepping in. She catches your wrist, pivots, and before you understand what happened…

You’re on your back.

Staring at the ceiling.

Breath knocked out of you.

Harcourt leans over you, hands on her knees. “Good attack. Horrible follow-through.” A beat. “But you’re improving.”

You groan. “That hurt.”

“Yeah. Fighting hurts.” She offers you her hand—rare, unexpected. You take it. Her grip is firm, warm, grounding. “But you’re getting better. And I’m not letting you go into the field until you can drop someone twice your size.”

You swallow, surprised by the care hidden inside the critique. “You want me safe.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t deny it.

“Of course I do,” she mutters. “Now get up. We’re doing grapples.”

Your eyes widen. “Grapples?”

She smirks, stepping back into position. “Yeah. Try to pin me.”

“You just threw me like I was made of string.”

“Exactly. I want to see if you learned anything.”

You raise your hands again, breath quickening.

Harcourt’s eyes soften—just for a heartbeat—before she slips back into combat mode.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Show me what you’ve got.”