[static]

Training makes you strong. It’s preparation for battle, even when there’s no match on the calendar. That’s what teammates are for. Mirrors. Blades. Opponents. Teachers. Fear doesn’t live here. It’s been trained out. There was no reason to worry.

His apartment was warm. Sparse. Laid bare, save for the essentials. She read it as efficiency. Discipline. No excess. Strength. He was welcoming. There was no reason to worry.

Drills were tough. There’s always something that makes you question your skill, your control. A move you can’t land. A grip that slips. A lock that won’t hold. That’s what teammates are for. That’s what the apartment was for. It was laid bare. It had space to practice. So they practiced. He was helpful. There was no reason to worry.

When the walls disappeared, she didn’t need to worry. She was with a teammate. She’d already said no. So why did he ask again? She said it again anyway. Maybe he just needed a reminder. You’re so pretty, he said. Thank you. No thank you. She was polite. He was not. His mouth was rot and betrayal. She should’ve known then. She was starting to worry.

When the floor collapsed, it took her body with it. And he was gone. She was worried. The room spun when they reappeared. His voice seemed to bleed from the air. It used to be warm. Now it was cold. His breath was hot. Sick. Unwelcome. But the floor collapsed. He asked permission like manners were mercy. She was only still like water, like prey. He said please like he would die without it. Her pleas died on her tongue. All boundaries died on his. He didn’t belong there. This wasn’t training. This was the battle. So where was her strength? And the floor was gone again. Both of them with it. She knew now. Fear came back like an old friend.

The room was gone. Both of them with it.

Only the questions stayed: he begged like she was currency, then robbed her anyway.

Only his rhythm stayed: force lived where trust used to.

Only the language failed: words had no meaning.

Because she’d said no already. Stop. Please. She was polite. He was not. She choked on the shards of her own refusal. He didn’t belong there. But her shell wouldn’t move; her control vanished with the walls. With the floor. With the room. She fought for it, but it won. He won.

His apartment was bare. No distractions. No consent. No excuses. No witnesses.

And training hadn’t helped.