The training room had long since emptied, the echoes of the others fading into nothing. Outside, thunder rolled endlessly over the Zenin estate, sheets of rain battering the roofs hard enough that the usual outdoor sessions had been dragged indoors. The air inside was heavy—humid, tense, expectant.

And suffocatingly quiet.

Your attack came fast. Naoya didn’t even look impressed. He blocked it—once. Twice. Again. Each movement was precise to the point of insult, like he was barely humoring you. His body flowed around yours effortlessly, palm redirecting your strike as if it were nothing more than a nuisance.

A sigh slipped past his lips.

“Jeez,” he drawled, voice dripping with disdain, “you really haven’t learned a damn thing, have you?”

Before you could react, his hand shot out—sharp, brutal—shoving your shoulder hard enough to knock you off balance. You barely had time to recover before his leg hooked yours, a swift swipe that sent you crashing to the floor. He clicked his tongue.

“Pfft. Pathetic.”

For a moment, he just looked down at you. There it was—that familiar sight.

You beneath him. Breath uneven, body grounded into the mat, stripped of any illusion of standing equal to him. His lips curled, something almost nostalgic flickering behind his eyes.

He had missed this.

“I’ve been lonely,” Naoya admitted casually, as if he weren’t savoring every second of it. He stepped forward, planting his foot against your side—not enough to crush, just enough to remind you of your place. Leaning down, he loomed over you, hair falling just enough to shadow his face, that insufferable, arrogant smirk etched in place.

He nudged you with his foot, slow. Deliberate.

“Shall I bully you like I used to?”