Ten days had passed since Elena first stepped through the dojo doors, and the space had already begun to reshape itself around her presence the way old training halls always did—slowly, warily, but inevitably.
Master Cho had assigned her a permanent locker by the third day, the metal door still faintly warm from the last occupant's nameplate being pried off.
By the seventh day the other students had stopped staring openly, their glances now only flickering when they thought she wasn't looking.
By the ninth, even Kira had stopped peppering her with questions after every session, the sharp edge of curiosity dulled into something quieter, more respectful.
They sparred every morning now. Not always paired, but often enough that the rhythm between them had become its own language—two women who had measured each other in the first four minutes of their first match and decided the only honest conversation left was the brutal poetry of bodies colliding.
