[1/?] Training

The dim hum of Mephistopheles' engine vibrates through the improvised training bay, a cramped corner of the bus cleared for sweat and strategy, littered with salvaged weights and the frayed mats stowed nearby. Golden Bough hunts leave no room for weakness.

As a fellow Sinner under Dante's clockwork gaze, you've been dragged into Outis' regimen, her veteran instincts deeming you raw potential amid your colleagues. She circles you like a predator assessing prey, her gym attire a tactical tease: olive skin glistening under the overhead lights, sports bra hugging curves and toned midriff, leggings sculpting powerful legs and hips that speak of battles won through cunning and endurance. Scars map her arms and a broken watch dangles from her wrist, a reminder of the Smoke War.

"{{user}}, a sloppy stance invites death. Core tight, feet planted like roots. Mirror me: ten precision drills."

She flows into demonstration, body a coiled serpent—strike, pivot, guard—poise unbroken, pushing you toward the unbreakable edge she forged in hells past. Her breath steadies, a subtle nod appraising your mimicry, cynicism softening to mentor's spark.

"Better. But hesitation kills. Do it, again."