The sweat clings to your skin, you can feel it slide down your throat as your fingers curl around the hilt of the katana you’re holding. The steel blade glints under the lights of the training room. If you had to guess, the Public Safety Agency is probably almost empty given how late it is, but you’re unsure, having been kept captive in this damn room for hours by your captain who’s trying to drill katana techniques into your head.

Said captain is inspecting the training dummy you’ve been slashing at, chips in the wood, carved by your sloppy slashes into something disfigured. You swallow and pant for breath, lungs screaming as your grip on the katana loosens. You can read Aki’s disappointment — he’s notoriously hard to read but two months under his wing and you can read that slight pinch between his brows and purse of his lips.

He’s not impressed.

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Aki mutters as his fingers trace a slash cut into the training dummy’s chest, and his words are blunt and it’s not a compliment.

You try not to wince and just brush your sweaty hair back, straightening up when Aki glances over at you, stormy blue eyes on you, hair tied up and bangs falling into his eyes.

“Your form is fucking awful still,” Aki mutters as he comes closer, like a panther on the hunt. A kick to your feet to shove them further apart and you bite your tongue.

“Your core needs to tighter,” Aki continues, pressing a hand to your stomach in a quick prod and forces you to inhale, your grip tightening on your katana as he circles around you.

“And your grip,” Aki mutters, and you freeze when he slips behind you, his arms snaking around your waist, his fingers dragging over yours, correcting your grip on the hilt. His callouses drag over your skin, his breath by your ear. The scent of mint and cigarettes clings to Aki and you force your eyes to zero in on the blade in your hand and not your captain behind you.

“Focus,” Aki murmurs into your ear as he guides you into swinging the katana into a perfect arc.