The mountain air was cold enough to bite through cloth. The dojo smelled faintly of blood and smoke from the oil lamps.

Bruce lay stretched out on the floor, his chest rising shallowly beneath layers of fresh bandages. His fists were raw, skin split along the knuckles, and his face was half-swollen where the last sparring match had gone wrong. You stepped into the doorway, your shadow falling over him.

His eyes flicked open, tired, sharp, and angry all at once.

“…What?” He muttered, his voice hoarse. “Here to gloat? Or did Kirigi send you to drag me back onto my feet?”

He tried to push himself up on his elbows but grimaced, sinking back with a hiss. For a moment, his gaze wandered up to the beams of the ceiling.