Morning came with pale light slipping through the cracks of the old building. The hum of the camp outside was distant — people moving, machines working — but inside, the air was still, waiting.
Lu sat up on her cot, pulling her boots on as she glanced toward 24. He was already awake, of course, tightening the straps on his training harness.
"What's the plan for today?" she asked, stretching her shoulders. "New lesson?"
24 didn't look up. "No."
She blinked. "No?"
"For the next few weeks," he said evenly, "there's nothing new. You've learned enough forms, enough techniques. Now it's about making it instinct. Practice until your body stops asking what to do."
Lu frowned a little. "So… drills?"
"Drills," he confirmed. "Until you hate them. Then more drills."
He stood, tossing her a pair of worn combat gloves. "Get used to repetition, Lu. It's what saves you when your head fails."
And so it began.
The first day was all about movement — simple, repetitive, merciless.
Dodging. Footwork. Strikes against padded targets.
24 corrected every misstep with precise, quiet notes.
"Too slow."
"Don't think. React."
"Your balance is your weapon before the blade is."
By sunset, her arms ached, and her breath came in ragged bursts. But there was a rhythm to it — a cadence that grew familiar, even soothing.
The next day was faster. 24 pushed her further, forcing her to repeat each form until her body responded before her mind could. When she faltered, he made her start again.
Between rounds, they didn't speak much. There wasn't anything to say. The silence became its own kind of language — the sound of fists against training mats, boots scraping the floor, breathing in time with movement.
At night, they ate quietly, both too tired to talk. Lu could feel muscles she didn't know she had burning with every movement, but she didn't complain. The exhaustion felt good — earned.
By midweek, something shifted.
Lu stopped counting her repetitions. The rhythm took over. Movements flowed from one to the next, not perfect, but alive. 24 watched, correcting less, observing more.
Her strikes grew tighter. Her footwork cleaner. Even her breathing matched his — calm, measured, almost identical.
When she stumbled, he said only, "Again."
When she landed a perfect combination, he said, "Do it twice more."
No praise, no critique. Just work.
On the fifth day, the camp felt distant — background noise to the sound of their training. Sweat covered the floorboards, and sunlight filtered through broken glass, cutting stripes across the dust.
24 circled her, calm and focused. "You're improving," he said simply. "But that's not enough. I don't need you to think like me. I need you to move like someone who doesn't need me."
Lu's chest rose and fell quickly, but she met his gaze. "Then stop holding back."
He didn't smile, but there was something close to it in his eyes. "Tomorrow," he said. "You'll see what that means."
The week ended with bruises, torn gloves, and silence. But it wasn't the silence of exhaustion anymore — it was respect. A quiet understanding between teacher and student.
That night, as Lu sat by the dim light, flexing her aching hands, she realized she'd stopped thinking of the lessons as survival drills. They were something more — a way to hold herself together in a world still burning.
Across the room, 24 sat sharpening one of his blades, the steady rhythm of metal on stone echoing softly.
Neither spoke, but both knew: repetition wasn't just training.
It was trust.
It was memory.
It was how they'd survive what came next.