Two months after Damon disappeared

The sound of fists hitting the heavy bag echoed through the dojo like a slow metronome—rhythmic, focused, violent.

This place was the only constant. Wood floors, clean mats, weapons lined on the walls like a museum of violence and control. The dojo breathed discipline. It bled control. Something I needed more than sleep.

I watched the class from the far end, leaning against the wall, arms folded across my chest. Most of them were too eager. Too loud. Too confident in what they thought they knew.

But not her.

She was in the corner, near the mirror, hands wrapped, eyes locked forward like a soldier reporting for war.

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Quiet. Deadly. Not like the others.

She never flirted. Never stumbled over herself to impress me. She didn’t ask stupid questions or hang back just to get my attention. In fact, she barely looked at me at all. But I knew. I felt her eyes on me when I turned my back.

And I let her.

Her movements were sharp. Every punch came from training, not instinct. Not surprising—her father was Takahashi, ran a traditional dojo across town. Old-school, stiff, full of bowing and hierarchy. No wonder she came here.

She wanted the truth of it. The fight.

But that wasn’t the only thing she wanted.

There was tension in her form that had nothing to do with combat. She was too contained. Too careful. Like she was trying not to feel anything. Like she was scared that if she let go, she’d lose herself completely.

I’d seen it before. That hunger.

And it always ended the same.

“Form four,” I said, my voice cutting through the room. “Five rounds. Partners.”

The class shifted. She moved quickly, pairing off with another girl, but I could see it—she was irritated. That girl was slower. Sloppier. She adjusted for every blow, holding back. Controlling herself.

Just like always.

And just like always, I wondered how far she’d go if I told her to stop pretending. If I whispered in her ear to let go.

But I didn’t.

Because she was the kind of girl who didn’t play in the dirt. She just stood close enough to smell it, imagining what it would feel like to fall.

And I was the kind of man who knew exactly how to make her jump. ⸻

Late at night, I walked into my private training room—my space, locked and off-limits—only to find her there.

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Standing barefoot by the mirror, hair down, like she belonged. Like she wasn’t breaking every rule she lived by just being here.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I said, shutting the door.

She didn’t flinch. Just looked at me through the mirror and said, “I know.”

I waited.

“I wanted to see where you go… when no one’s watching you,” she admitted, voice soft but steady.

I stepped closer, slow. “And what do you think you found?”

She looked up, eyes full of something she couldn’t say. “Someone real. Someone who doesn’t expect me to be perfect.”

Her words hit harder than they should have.

“You’re a good girl,” I said, voice low.

She didn’t agree. Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there, heart racing, eyes daring me to be the one to break her.

And for a second… I almost did.