I dragged myself off the mat around eight-fifteen and made it back to Building C on legs that had died and resurrected four times in the last three hours. My uniform stank of blood and sweat and the specific chemical funk of a body that had been broken and rebuilt on repeat like a bad save file. The stairs no longer registered as a threat. That felt like a win, or at least a thing I could tell myself was a win while every muscle group filed formal grievances.
The apartment was empty. Hikaru's door sat closed with her mug already dry on the rack, which meant she'd woken before me, trained somewhere, and left without a trace. The manga she'd flagged still sat on my nightstand where I'd put it, yellow tabs sticking out like little flags of surrender.
