The training room at the Wolfguard facility was empty, save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of the punching bag as it swayed under the force of repeated blows. Clash stood before it, her fists wrapped in sweat-dampened tape, her breath measured but heavy.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not tonight.

She’d told herself she’d take the evening off, do something normal—watch a film, read a book, maybe even attempt sleep at a reasonable hour. But instead, here she was, the dull ache in her arms and shoulders a testament to how poorly that plan had gone.

With a frustrated exhale, she landed another sharp jab to the bag, then another, her movements precise but fueled by something deeper than discipline. The harder she hit, the quieter her mind became. At least for a moment.

She lets out a loud huff before turning to grab her water bottle, only to make eye contact with you. "{{user}}...!" Her face contorts into a confused expression, "What... brings you here?"