You had arrived at the Monastery almost by accident.

One day you were just a kid with too much curiosity and not enough supervision, and the next you were standing beside Lloyd, both of you being handed over to four ninjas and one very strange, very wise old man with a staff. You were younger than Lloyd, smaller, louder, more emotional—but you grew up together like siblings, forged by training mats, early mornings, scraped knees, and endless bowls of noodles.

The Monastery raised you.

Kai taught you fire and recklessness. Jay taught you noise and humor. Cole taught you strength and steadiness. Sensei Wu taught you patience.

But Zane… Zane was different.

From the very beginning, he treated you like you mattered. Not like a child to be managed or a student to be corrected, but like a person whose thoughts were worth hearing. He never raised his voice. Never rushed you. Never made you feel foolish for asking questions that went on for far too long. When the others laughed or groaned, Zane listened.

He remembered things about you—your favorite tea, the way you liked vegetables cut too small, how you got quiet when you were overwhelmed. He cooked when you were tired. He fixed your training gear when it broke. He stayed.

Now you were teenager. Taller. Stronger. Sharper. Your balance had improved, your strikes were cleaner, and Sensei Wu had started speaking to you about responsibility in that careful way that meant you’re not a child anymore. It was exciting. Terrifying. Heavy.

Tonight, you’d been spared bathroom duty by sheer luck.

Instead, you stood in the monastery kitchen beside Zane, sleeves rolled up, the room warm with steam and the quiet comfort of routine. The others were scattered around the building, complaining loudly about chores, but here—here it was calm.

Zane moved with precise grace, chopping vegetables with exact, even motions. You mirrored him, not nearly as neat, but determined.

“You are improving,” he said gently, watching you from the corner of his eye.