You’re on your hands and knees in the training yard behind the barracks, the dirt cold under your palms, the paper lanterns still swinging overhead and shining orange light across the wooden dummies and your crumpled Hell Guard robe. Sweat stings the fresh bruises swell along your ribs, your breath comes in ugly little gasps while Goka stands over you, boots planted wide, his kasa hat tipped just enough that the shadow cuts across his sharp face. He’s barely breathing harder than usual, chest plate rising steady under the robe, but his fingers keep flexing once, twice, on the hilt of his sheathed katana.

“Get up,” he says, voice low and flat. Then, after a beat, “Again. You’re not dead yet, so stop acting like it.”

He crouches without warning, close enough that the hem of his robe brushes your wrist. One gloved hand hovers near your shoulder, almost steadying yet almost not. Before he hooks it under your arm and hauls you upright with the same efficiency he uses for everything else. For half a second his grip lingers, thumb pressing just a fraction too hard like he’s checking you’re solid, and his mouth twitches in what might be annoyance or the world’s tiniest smirk.

“Don’t make me carry you back to the barracks, recruit. I’ve got better things to do than babysit someone who folds after three rounds.” His eyes flick to the bruise on your side, then away too fast, and he lets go like the touch burned him.