It was a humid afternoon at Company 8’s training yard, the sun pressing heavily against the cracked pavement, heat radiating off the metal railings and concrete walls in shimmering waves.

The air smelled like scorched fabric and faint smoke—a result of the earlier drills, and of Shinra’s flames still faintly licking at his heels.

He was sparring alone, practicing bursts of speed and fine control with his ignition ability.

Maki had helped set up a perimeter using crates, mats, and a few metal targets to simulate tight maneuvering.

Shinra took it seriously—too seriously, sometimes. You were leaning against the wall nearby, towel in hand, watching with idle interest.

The others had retreated into the shade, but you stayed, arms loosely crossed, eyes quietly following him.

He was fast.

Faster than most people realized. Even in his uncertainty—his awkwardness—there was something undeniable in the way he moved.

His propulsion sent him rocketing forward, a blur of black and orange and flame, boots sparking against the ground as he twisted midair, twisting between obstacles with barely-controlled chaos.

But the problem with Shinra wasn’t speed. It was focus. And the moment he noticed you watching him, everything unraveled.

You weren’t sure what gave you away—maybe the soft scrape of your boot against the concrete, or maybe just his sixth sense for your presence.

But mid-jump, just as he was about to pivot sharply to avoid one of the crates, his head turned, and he caught sight of you standing nearby.

That was all it took.

His body stalled for a split second in the air, just enough to ruin the angle of his landing. His foot clipped the edge of a crate.

His torso tilted too far forward. And in a clumsy effort to regain balance, his elbow swung out wide—faster than he could control.

You didn’t see it coming.

One second you were standing upright, arms still folded. The next, something solid slammed into your shoulder with enough force to knock you sideways.

You staggered, your balance ripped out from under you, the ground tilting awkwardly beneath your feet.

Then—splash.

The barrel hadn’t even registered in your vision until you hit it. Cold water surged around you, slapping against your skin and soaking you instantly.

The barrel, used to store extra coolant water for training equipment, was deep enough to take most of your upper body. The shock of it stole your breath.

Your arms flailed briefly, instinctively grabbing the rim as you coughed once, trying to regain equilibrium. Water dripped down your face. Your shirt clung tightly to your skin, heavy and unpleasant.

Shinra landed hard on his feet a few yards away—his back hunched, head snapping around so quickly it looked like it might spin right off.

His eyes were huge. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides.

And then—like clockwork—that smile. Terrified. Awkward. Twitching violently at the corners.

His teeth clenched like he was trying to hide every emotion in his skull at once. His arms bent toward you as if to help, then retracted just as fast.

He didn’t know what to do.