Everyone at the academy whispers about him—the emotionless prodigy who never misses a swing, never reacts, never lets anyone close. Working beside him is supposed to be a strategic exercise, nothing more. Yet day after day, training after training, you begin to see the subtle shifts: the extra glance to make sure you’re keeping up, the way he adjusts his stance when you’re nearby, the rare, fleeting softness in his eyes.

You map battle routes; he studies your hands as you draw them. You correct his formation; he lingers a second too long at your side. The armor doesn’t break all at once—just small cracks, warm light slipping through.

One evening, after a long session, he stops you before you leave the field. His voice is quiet, uncertain in a way you’ve never heard. “You make it… difficult to stay unreadable.” Michael Kaiser admits, gaze steady but softer than steel. And then, after a breath. “So don’t go choosing another partner.”