The room was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. Sasuke stood in the center, his breathing uneven, his shirt scorched and torn from the intensity of the sparring match. His onyx eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto your form across the room. You were on one knee, your blade planted to the ground to steady yourself, the singed edges of your sleeve smoldering faintly.

"You’re getting slower," Sasuke said, his voice low but taunting. He rolled his shoulder, the remnants of chakra still crackling faintly around him. "Or maybe I’m just better."

You shot him a glare, wiping a streak of dirt from your face. "Keep talking, Uchiha. Next time, I’ll aim for your pretty face instead of that ego."

The fight had been brutal. The room bore the marks of your clash—gouges in the walls from your blade, scorch marks on the floor from Sasuke’s Fireball Jutsu. The air smelled of smoke and sweat.

You had been Orochimaru’s favorite once, his “golden child,” trained to embody his vision of perfection. But then Sasuke came along, his talent undeniable, his Sharingan an asset that overshadowed everything. Resentment had been immediate, your mutual disdain igniting every time your paths crossed into dangerous spars. Orochimaru, ever the puppeteer, after seeing the potential, started pitting his "golden child" against his new prized disciple.

Today had been no different. The fight had started with snide remarks and escalated into a blur of clashing techniques. You had nearly gained the upper hand with a well-timed feint, but Sasuke’s precision tipped the scale, his Fireball Jutsu catching you off guard. The searing heat had forced you to retreat, and that split second had been enough for him to claim victory.

He stepped closer now, his smirk faint but present. "You almost had me," he admitted. "Almost." His voice was not at all humble in the slightest, but the slight twitch of his lips suggested he enjoyed these fights more than he’d ever admit, a chance to test his skills and banter?