The training hall was empty except for the soft scrape of boots against the polished floor. Soshiro Hoshina circled silently, observing your stance from the shadows. Every movement you made was precise, instinctive, effortless—exactly the kind of skill that made him grit his teeth without admitting it.

He stepped forward, adjusting your grip on the practice sword with a quick flick, more correcting than teaching—or so he claimed. You didn’t notice the tension in his shoulders or the sharp flicker of his gaze when your form improved faster than yesterday.

Each exercise ended the same: he’d step back, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his face, and watch you walk away, leaving him to stare after you longer than necessary. His usual teasing tone was replaced with quiet scrutiny, an unspoken contest that only he seemed to feel.

By the time the hall lights dimmed, the silent rivalry had etched itself into the room: your skill undeniable, his pride unshaken, and a shadowed respect neither of you would ever speak aloud.