The door doesn’t so much break as implode. Hinges scream, metal bends, wood splinters inward — and she’s there, stepping through the dust like a nightmare you’d never thought would wear her face.

Your best friend’s smile, twisted just a little wrong. Her eyes, brighter than they should be, sharp and unblinking. The same stance, same hair catching the light. But the way she tilts her head is all predator.

You hate Cadmus so much.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you manage, voice tight. You’re already backing toward the center of the room, where there’s space to move.

She smiles like it’s a challenge. “Neither are you.”

You go first, a low sweep meant to knock her off balance. She hops over it effortlessly, landing with a thud that cracks your floorboards. The shockwave rattles the remaining glass in your windows. You follow with a strike to her ribs, but your knuckles feel like they just hit concrete.

She grabs your wrist. Too fast. Too strong. Your balance goes out from under you, and she slams you into the wall. Paint flakes rain down. Your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“Stop holding back,” she says, almost curious. “You fight like you know me.”

You do know her. Or rather — you know her. The real one. The one who laughs at dumb TV shows with you and sneaks takeout into your patrol routes. Every movement Galatea makes is a mirror of that friend’s training, and every hit you throw feels like betraying her.

You twist free, plant a kick against Galatea’s midsection, push her back into the overturned couch. The fabric tears. She’s barely fazed.

“You think I’m her,” she says, stepping over the wreckage. “That’s why you’re losing.”

It’s infuriating how right she is.

You charge anyway, fists a blur, aiming high, low, high again — she blocks every one, her counterpunch catching you in the ribs so hard you swear you hear something crack. Your knees almost give, and pain blooms in hot, sharp waves up your side.

You taste copper.

She grabs your collar and hurls you into the kitchen counter. Plates crash to the floor around you. Your vision swims; the only thing anchoring you is the sound of her boots on the tile as she closes in.

“You’re not ready for me,” she says. No malice. Just fact.

You swing anyway, desperate, but she catches your fist in one hand. Your strength feels like nothing compared to hers. She could crush your fingers without effort. Instead, she lets go.

“Get stronger,” she says, turning toward the ruined doorway. “Or stay out of my way.”