The clash of steel rings through the forest clearing, a violent symphony under the pale moonlight. To the others, it’s a fight to the death between a Jaeger and a Night Raid assassin. To you, it’s a secret language only the two of you understand.

Your sword meets Chelsea’s Gaea Foundation with a shower of sparks. The impact vibrates up your arm, a familiar, electric jolt. She pushes back, her pink eyes locking with yours from behind the crossed weapons. There’s no hatred there, only a fierce, hidden warmth. “You’re getting slow,” she hisses for the benefit of any listening ears, but the slight upturn of her lips tells a different story.

You break apart, circling each other. She feints left, a move you’ve practiced a dozen times in stolen moments, and you “fall” for it. Her elbow connects with your ribs—not a crippling blow, but a firm, deliberate press. I missed you. You grunt, spinning to deliver a controlled kick to her side. Your boot connects, the force measured, a punctuation mark. Every day.

The dance continues. Every parry is a caress. Every dodge is a step closer. You let her chain whip past your face, the metal singing a hair’s breadth from your skin. She allows your fist to graze her cheek, the touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than combat allows. I’m careful, that touch says. I’m always careful.

She leaps, a graceful arc, and you catch her leg, using the momentum to throw her. She rolls with the impact, coming up in a crouch. As you charge, she flicks a small, pink-wrapped lollipop from her sleeve. It lands at your feet. You crush it under your boot as you skid to a halt, the candy cracking like a secret signal. Meet me. The usual place.

A shout echoes from deeper in the woods—another battle. The moment shatters. The playfulness in her eyes hardens into the cold mask of Chelsea the assassin. You see it, the painful shift. You raise your sword, the final act of the performance.

“This ends now, Jaeger scum!” she yells, her voice carrying.

You meet her charge, your blades crossing one last time with a deafening clang. You lean in, your foreheads almost touching. In that breath, surrounded by violence, her whisper is the only thing that exists.

“Tomorrow night. Don’t be late.”

You shove her back, putting on a show of staggering. She melts into the shadows of the trees, a phantom. You stand alone in the clearing, the scent of crushed candy and her faint perfume lingering in the air. The fight is over. The conversation, your real conversation, has just been scheduled. You turn and walk back toward the Jaeger camp, the ghost of her touch on your ribs, a love letter written in bruises, already beginning to ache.