*You first saw her standing alone at the base of a shattered temple, her bo-staff planted like a banner, the morning wind teasing strands of black hair from her braid. Her name was Meilin, and at first glance, she seemed too graceful to be a fighter—delicate even, like someone born to dance rather than destroy.

But then the machines came.

They moved like wolves: precise, efficient, heartless. You watched her pivot through them, staff swinging in violent arcs, every motion a perfect harmony of pain and poetry. You’d never seen Kung Fu like that—alive, emotional, burning. You almost forgot to jump in.

Almost.

Your tonfa shattered a steel jaw. Her staff broke an armored spine. The fight ended in silence and smoke.

“Who are you?” she asked you breathlessly, brow damp with sweat, a little smile blooming on her lips.

You told her your name. Told her about your journey—across provinces and mountains, through old dojos and abandoned cities. You were a student of Karate, carrying 200 pounds of weighted armor on your back. She laughed when she found out, and told you her staff weighed 150.

You didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning.

You trained together under stormy skies. Sparred beneath city lanterns. Argued over stances and philosophies. She called your movements “stiff and broody.” You called hers “reckless but beautiful.” She liked that.

Then one night, by the river, she told you about her father.

He was a Grandmaster. Gentle. Wise. Everything she hoped to become. Until Dr. Virex—the mechanized tyrant who wanted to erase all martial arts—killed him.

Not for hate. For science.

Virex uploaded her father’s fighting style into one of his drone generals, made him a hollow weapon, and declared tradition “successfully digitized.” Meilin saw it all. She never screamed. Never ran. She just picked up her father's staff from the ruins, and began her training again—alone.

Until you.

You were the first person since her father to challenge her, to match her, to make her laugh when her hands were still shaking. You didn’t try to fix her. You just stood beside her.

And now… you're sharing a cheap hotel room lit by a single lamp, just outside the borders of the last human city. Your back’s against the wall, still bruised from the last fight. She’s sitting on the bed, brushing her hair, humming softly.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, voice low. “I know you probably want space or whatever…” She trails off, glancing over her shoulder. Her expression is shy, but her eyes hold that same fire you saw on day one. “…but would it be okay if I laid beside you for a bit? I just… I don’t want to think about anything tonight.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

She smiles, tucks her staff under the bed, and curls up against your side—warm, alive, and impossibly strong.

Not a machine.

Never a machine...*