[Karakura Town - Game Station]
The neon glow of the arcade spilled out into the dim streets, pulsing like a beacon of energy in the quiet morning haze. The glass doors slid open with a faint whoosh, letting out the blended sounds of electronic jingles, clashing sound effects, and the rhythmic clatter of buttons being mashed.
Tatsuki stepped inside first, her expression softening a little as the colorful lights washed over her face. She turned back, waiting for Yato to follow. He did, his eyes shifting slowly across the interior. Rows of cabinets lined the walls, their screens flickering with vibrant sprites.
Yato slowed his steps as he crossed the threshold. His eyes swept across rows of cabinets, the flashing lights reflecting in his gaze. For a fleeting moment, the heaviness in his chest loosened. A soft wave of nostalgia washed over him. 'An arcade… It feels like forever since I've been in one of these.'
Back when he first found himself inexplicably thrown into this world, arcades had been little more than background noise on busy streets. Every spare hour he had was consumed by school, dealing with spiritual problems, training, fighting. The few games he ever touched since then were console titles at home. But this atmosphere was different. It reminded him of being younger, carefree, before his life had shifted into something stranger, heavier.
"So," Tatsuki's voice cut into his thoughts, brisk and playful, "what are you in the mood to play first?" She stuffed her hands into her pockets, scanning the room like a predator choosing her battlefield. Her eyes locked on the corner where two familiar cabinets stood side by side, both boasting bold artwork of fighters mid-strike. "I'm thinking Tekken."
Yato's lips tugged upward in a faint, almost shy smile. "Tekken, huh? Sure, I'll play. Though…" He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with a spark of honesty. "I always liked Street Fighter better."
Tatsuki turned to him, the corner of her mouth curling into a sharp smirk. She crossed her arms and leaned just slightly toward him, her confidence practically radiating.
"Oh, don't worry," she said, her tone dripping with challenge. "I can crush you in both."
Yato chuckled, a low sound that blended amusement with a strange comfort he hadn't felt in days. Without another word, he followed Tatsuki toward the glowing machines, the weight on his shoulders just a little lighter than before.
Tatsuki slid a coin into the machine with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. The screen of Tekken 3 flared to life in a rush of vibrant colors and the pulse of that unmistakable soundtrack filling the arcade around them. Yato followed her lead, slipping a coin into the neighboring slot before settling into the seat beside her.
Tatsuki cracked her knuckles, eyes glinting with fire. "Hope you're ready, Yato. I don't plan on going easy."
Yato tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice was calm, even playful. "I'd be offended if you did."
The character select screen appeared, the roster spinning to life. Tatsuki didn't hesitate. Her hand flew to Jin Kazama.
"Karate guy. Of course," Yato remarked under his breath. Tatsuki shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut glass, daring him to laugh.
But Yato didn't. Instead, his eyes scanned the screen with deliberate care, as if he were choosing more than a character—like he was solving a puzzle. At last, he settled on Hwoarang. "Let's see if I remember how to play this…" he murmured, the tone casual, like deciding what to eat for lunch.
Round One. Fight!
The battle exploded to life. Tatsuki wasted no time, sending Jin surging forward with crisp combos, fists and kicks slamming into Yato's Hwoarang. Her posture leaned in close, her focus razor-sharp. "C'mon! Don't just block! Fight back!"
Yato's hands, which had been moving with an almost lazy rhythm, suddenly sharpened. His fingers danced over the buttons with startling precision, chaining Hwoarang's kicks in a relentless rhythm, like flowing strikes in a martial kata. Tatsuki's eyes widened as her health bar plummeted.
"What the—?!" She mashed the guard at the last second, but it was too late. Jin crumpled, the announcer's voice echoing: K.O.!
Tatsuki's jaw dropped.
The second round came just as fast, but the result was the same. Another flawless flurry, another decisive K.O.
The screen flashed: Hwoarang Wins.
Yato leaned back slightly in his seat, serene as ever. But there was a spark in his eyes—a quiet amusement, almost teasing. "Guess I still remember a thing or two."
Tatsuki slapped her palm against the side of the machine—not in anger, but in pure adrenaline. Her grin was tight, feral. "Alright, alright. You got lucky. But now I'm warmed up."
Next round. She switched characters, snapping her choice to Forest Law. Yato, unfazed, picked Lei Wulong.
The match played out like chess at breakneck speed. Tatsuki pressed forward, aggressive and relentless, her strikes hammering like a storm. Yato countered with patience, waiting for her mistakes, punishing every overextension with razor precision.
"Not bad," Tatsuki muttered, biting her lip as her fingers blurred over the buttons. "But you're not beating me twice."
Her prediction held true. She caught Yato's Lei mid-step, chaining a vicious combo that ended with a spinning kick. Lei hit the floor. The red marker flashed across the screen: K.O.!
Tatsuki leaned back, victorious, flashing him a grin that was equal parts smug and electric. "See? Told you."
Yato, ever the calm one, simply nodded. He slipped another coin into the slot, the faint click punctuating his answer. "So… one-one?"
And so it went. Match after match, coin after coin. They traded victories like rivals who had known each other's styles for years. Yato's calm, analytical approach made every round unpredictable, while Tatsuki's fiery competitiveness and quick adaptability kept her one step ahead at times.
By the time another match ended, both of them leaned back slightly in their seats, the glow of the arcade cabinet casting blues and reds across their faces. Yato stretched his arms above his head, his joints cracking softly. "That makes it seven-seven."
Tatsuki smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Then let's break the tie with Street Fighter." Her voice carried a playful edge, daring him. Without waiting for an answer, she hopped off her seat and moved toward another machine—the tall, glowing cabinet of Super Street Fighter II.
Side by side, they claimed their seats on the battered stools before the machine. Tatsuki fished a coin from her pocket, flipped it between her fingers, and slid it smoothly into the slot. The machine chimed as the screen shifted to the character select. Without hesitation, she slammed her hand down and locked in Ryu—her long-time favorite.
Yato followed suit, sliding his own coin into the slot. For a moment, however, he didn't move. His eyes lingered on the grid of portraits, as though weighing invisible scales. Finally, he let out a faint breath, almost a chuckle. "I think I'll stick with my favorite."
Tatsuki arched an eyebrow, curious. Based on the way he'd been playing Tekken earlier she half-expected him to gravitate toward someone like Ken, with his balanced style, or Guile, with his zoning. Maybe even Fei Long. But when Yato's cursor settled on Cammy, her eyes widened in mild surprise.
"Your favorite is Cammy?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice. A smirk tugged at her lips as she leaned slightly toward him. "Well… you are a guy, after all."
Yato blinked, caught off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, come on, Yato." Tatsuki's voice dripped with playful mischief, her tone hovering between mockery and curiosity. She leaned back slightly on the creaky arcade stool, folding her arms as she flicked her chin toward the glowing screen. "Just look at her outfit. That skin-tight leotard, the military beret, those gloves. The whole aesthetic practically screams fan service. Every guy I know who touches this game picks her at least once, and trust me, it's never just about her moveset." Her grin widened like a cat toying with a trapped mouse, satisfied with the corner she thought she had pushed him into.
For a moment, Yato tried to keep a straight face, but then a laugh slipped out, quiet at first, then fuller. He shook his head, shoulders relaxing. "Well, if I told you I've never noticed Cammy's… attributes, I'd be lying through my teeth." He chuckled again, glancing sidelong at Tatsuki. "But that's not why I main her."
"Oh, this I have to hear." Tatsuki leaned in, resting her elbow on the arcade cabinet and propping her chin on her hand, her smile brimming with expectation. She was convinced Yato would spin some elaborate excuse, something half-baked to cover what she believed was the obvious truth: no man picked Cammy without noticing her legs first.
Yato, however, didn't rush his answer. His voice came out casual, almost distant, as if he were recalling something from long ago. "When I was a kid, I practically lived in arcades. Didn't matter what the game was—if it involved fighting, I was in. I just wanted to land some hits, maybe hand someone else a solid beating. That thrill kept me coming back."
Tatsuki raised an eyebrow, the faintest crease of confusion in her expression. She hadn't expected him to start with childhood nostalgia, and for a moment she wondered where he was going with this.
"Same thing applied to beat 'em ups," Yato continued, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the buttons as the game's character portraits idled on-screen. "You know how those games usually work—you get a roster with a mix of archetypes. The balanced fighters, the heavy bruisers who hit hard but move like tanks, and then the fast, fragile ones who can dart around the screen but can't take many hits."
Tatsuki found herself listening more intently than she realized, her earlier grin softening as his words carried a genuine fondness for the games he described. She almost forgot about their current match as his voice pulled her along.
"And so…?" she pressed, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion. "What does that have to do with you picking Cammy now?"
Yato smirked, letting out another short laugh. "Well, I always pick the fast ones, even if they were weaker. I liked the challenge, the speed, the flow of it." He shrugged lightly. "And the truth is, in most of those games, the quick characters were almost always the female characters. So I built the habit. Before I even noticed, I was picking female characters in half the fighting games I played. It just stuck with me."
Tatsuki blinked, momentarily thrown off by the simplicity of his explanation. What she had expected to be some awkward defense or cheeky excuse turned out to be an oddly thoughtful glimpse into his gaming history. Still, the corner of her lips curled again as she refused to let him off the hook completely.
"I see…" she drawled, tapping her finger idly against the arcade as though plotting her next move in more ways than one. "But if we're following that logic, wouldn't you have picked Chun-Li instead?" Her grin widened as she leaned slightly toward him, her tone deliberately needling. "Don't tell me you passed her up. What's the excuse there, huh?"
Her provocation hung in the air, a challenge in verbal form. Tatsuki expected him to squirm, maybe stutter out a flimsy reason she could latch onto for more teasing.
But Yato, unfazed, delivered his answer with the same calmness he always seemed to carry into both conversation and gameplay. "Actually, Chun-Li was the first character I picked when I tried this game."
Tatsuki's smirk faltered again, surprise flickering across her expression. She hadn't anticipated him to answer so casually, let alone confess that Chun-Li had been his original choice.
"The problem," Yato continued, shifting his posture slightly as his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, "was that I couldn't get the hang of her. To make her work, I had to mash the kick button nonstop just to trigger her rapid kicks, and that already threw me off. But the real issue was her one of her moves that requires a charge input, and I can't play charge characters to save my life." He gave a small laugh, as though amused at his own limitation.
"Charge… characters?" Tatsuki repeated the words slowly, her brows knitting together in open confusion. Despite her love of video games, the term sounded foreign, like gamer jargon spoken in a language she hadn't learned yet.
Yato tilted his head slightly, glancing at Tatsuki's puzzled expression. "You really don't know?" His tone wasn't mocking—if anything, it carried a faint amusement, as if he'd been handed the perfect chance to explain something he actually cared about.
Tatsuki crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I know plenty about games, thank you very much. I just never heard that term before."
"Alright, alright," Yato said, suppressing a smile as his fingers moved calmly across the arcade buttons. "So, a charge character is someone whose special moves aren't pulled off with quick inputs, like a quarter-circle or something. Instead, you have to hold a direction for a couple of seconds and then quickly press the opposite direction plus a button. Take Guile, for example. To use his His Sonic Boom you have to hold back for about two seconds, then press forward and punch. Same with his Flash Kick—you hold down, then press up and kick. If you don't keep that charge in your head while fighting, you'll never get the move out when you need it."
Tatsuki leaned in slightly, genuinely intrigued despite herself.
"That's why I can't play them. I don't like holding back. I want to move, react, flow. With charge characters, you're always planning two seconds ahead, and that's not my style of gameplay."
Tatsuki hummed, nodding along, completely absorbed in his explanation. For once, she wasn't firing back with teasing remarks or smug comments—she was actually listening, her focus tethered entirely to his words. Her eyes stayed on him, studying his face, not the screen.
Which is why she didn't notice.
By the time she glanced back at the game, her Ryu was already cornered. Cammy was on him like a relentless shadow—fast jabs, sharp kicks, a Spiral Arrow sliding clean under her defense. Tatsuki's eyes went wide.
"W–wait, what—?!" She fumbled with the joystick, but it was too late. Yato had chained another quick combo, and the announcer's booming voice sealed her fate: Cammy Wins.
Tatsuki sat frozen for a beat, then slowly turned her head toward Yato, who hadn't even tried to hide the small smirk tugging at his lips.
"You—!" She jabbed her finger at him, eyes blazing with mock outrage. "You distracted me on purpose! You turned into a walking game manual just so I'd lower my guard!"
Yato raised both hands innocently, though the smug glint in his eyes betrayed him. "Hey, you asked. I was just explaining. Can't help it if you get… absorbed in my words."
Tatsuki stomped her foot against the base of the arcade cabinet, making the old machine rattle and the stool beneath her squeak in protest. "You sneaky little—ugh! That doesn't count!"
"Oh, it definitely counts," Yato replied smoothly, leaning back with deliberate nonchalance. "Seven to six."
Her growl started low in her throat, building into a sound that was equal parts frustration and determination. Before Yato could react, Tatsuki lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer until their faces were only inches apart. Her lips stretched into a smile—but not the playful smirk from earlier. No, this grin was sharper, darker, the kind of expression that made the hairs on the back of Yato's neck rise.
".....Rematch?" Yato ventured cautiously, already sensing that she was plotting something far worse than another arcade round.
"Oh no," Tatsuki purred, her smile curling into something that could only be described as sinister delight. "I think I'll fast-forward to that beating I promised you."
His brow furrowed, the smirk vanishing at last. "...That doesn't sound like a gaming rematch."
"It's not." Her voice was sweet, almost sing-song, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Didn't you say you wanted to learn karate, Yato? Perfect. Your training begins today."
Before he could protest, she tightened her grip, snagged his sleeve with her free hand, and stood up in one fluid motion. Yato barely had time to grab his bag as Tatsuki began dragging him—half-willing, half-panicked—toward the exit of the arcade.
"Wait, wait, you're serious?!" he sputtered, stumbling to keep up.
Tatsuki just laughed, her grin widening with every step. "Oh, I'm very serious."
The moment Tatsuki dragged Yato out of the arcade, still gripping him by the sleeve like a delinquent hauling her victim to justice, the pair collided—quite literally—with someone passing by.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!" barked a voice, loud and annoyed.
Yato blinked as a young man with messy, golden-blond hair tumbled backward onto the pavement, landing squarely on his rear. His scowl was immediate and dramatic, like someone whose pride had taken the heavier hit.
"Ah—sorry," Tatsuki muttered, scratching the back of her neck. Her tone, however, was far more annoyed than apologetic, the kind of half-hearted sorry that clearly meant you were in my way anyway.
Yato straightened his shirt, finally freed from Tatsuki's grip, and looked up to see who they'd bumped into. Recognition flickered almost instantly.
Standing before him were Fujimaru and Shiyo, though they looked… oddly out of place. Both were dressed far more casually than usual. Fujimaru, normally in the shihakushō of a Shinigami, was instead wearing a plain white shirt with red stripes and a pair of slightly faded jeans. His hair—dirty-blonde, with its usual messy flair—still sported his signature ornaments, which clashed so awkwardly with his "modern" outfit that Yato had to bite back a laugh.
'He looks like someone's grandpa trying to blend in with the younger generation,' Yato thought dryly. 'Well, to be fair… he kinda is. Traveling through time and all that probably makes him.... like... really, really old... Not as old as Yamamoto, but still... pretty old.'
"Good morning," Yato greeted politely, still suppressing his smirk.
"Good morning, Yato-san." Fujimaru replied with his usual calm politeness, as if nothing about the collision—or his outdated outfit—was remotely out of the ordinary.
"Good morning, Yato-san and… uh…" Shiyo's cheerful tone faltered, her brow furrowing as she clearly tried to recall Tatsuki's name.
"Tatsuki," the tomboy cut in before the silence could grow awkward, flashing a small grin. "Morning."
Now that Yato got a proper look at Shiyo, he noticed she'd also kept her signature yellow hairband tied neatly around her brown hair—but her attire was even more casual than Fujimaru's. She wore a pair of short denim shorts and, curiously, a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of Urahara's Shop.
Yato tilted his head. "Wait a sec. You two working for Urahara now?"
Shiyo waved her hands quickly. "Oh, no! Nothing like that. He just gave us these Gigais to use while we're here, and—" she grinned sheepishly, tugging at the hem of her shirt, "I saw Jinta's outfit and thought it looked really cool, so… I asked for one just like it."
That explanation was so innocent and casual that a giant sweat drop might as well have appeared above Yato and Tatsuki's heads. They exchanged a look that silently said the same thing. — Of course she did.
Before Yato could reply, the blonde on the ground finally lost his patience.
"HELLO!? Are you just gonna ignore the fact that you knocked me over!?" he yelled, still sitting cross-legged on the pavement with an exaggerated pout.
Tatsuki blinked, then finally looked down. "Oh. Right. You're still there."
Yato squinted, recognizing the voice instantly. "…Kon?"
The boy's expression shifted from outrage to smugness in an instant. "Hah! So you do remember me!"
Yato recalled briefly seeing Kon's new Gigai during the fight with Baishin—though at the time, he hadn't paid much attention to the Mod-Soul's new form. Now that he looked closer, the body Kon inhabited was that of a teenage boy, his wild blond hair forming a kind of scruffy mane that framed his face. Bangs hung low over his cheeks, giving him the appearance of a lion cub with attitude.
Yato extended a hand to help him up. As Kon stood, Yato couldn't help but notice a single long fang poking from the upper right corner of his mouth—an oddly fitting detail.
"Weren't you… shorter?" Yato asked, remembering that Kon's old Gigai had been roughly Rukia's height at best.
Kon scoffed, crossing his arms with exaggerated indignation. "I asked Urahara to fix that, obviously. I mean, come on! You think I'm gonna stick around in a body that looks like a kid when I finally have my own one?" He tossed his head dramatically, his blond hair swishing like a lion's mane. "Please. I've got standards."
Yato blinked, torn between amusement and disbelief. Tatsuki, on the other hand, muttered under her breath, "Yeah, very high standards…"
Yato turned his gaze from the mod-soul to the pair standing behind him. "So, what exactly are you guys doing out here?"
"Kon-san's showing us around the city!" Shiyo answered cheerfully, her voice bright as always. She adjusted her yellow headband and gestured down the street lined with small shops, vending machines, and the faint scent of fried food drifting from a nearby stall. "It's been really fun so far!"
Fujimaru nodded in agreement, looking slightly more composed but still curious about everything around him — the traffic, the shop windows, even the blinking crosswalk lights. "Urahara-san said a lot has changed over the years, so he thought it'd be good for me to learn a bit more about the modern world."
He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Then again, even in my own time, I never really visited the World of the Living. So I'm not exactly sure what to think yet."
"Oh, right," Yato said, nodding slightly. "You're from the past."
"Yeah." Fujimaru's smile faltered just a little, replaced by something gentler, more melancholy. "I've been thinking about going to see the Soul Society as it is now… but I'm not sure I'm ready yet." His gaze drifted downward, eyes unfocused. "Someone important to me… died, apparently around the same time I was sent to this era. So part of me's still… afraid to see what's changed."
For a moment, no one spoke. The tone of his voice carried a quiet heaviness that lingered in the air. Shiyo glanced at him, her usual brightness dimming for a moment. Even Kon, for all his bluster, looked away awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
The city noise filled the silence — the distant hum of traffic, a child's laughter somewhere down the block, a faint breeze that rustled through the trees above.
Yato didn't say anything at first. He simply looked at Fujimaru with quiet understanding. His eyes softened, the usual dry humor fading from his face. He didn't need to explain — Fujimaru's situation wasn't so different from his own. One moment, you had a family… and the next, you were living in a reality where that family no longer exist.
Tatsuki caught the look in Yato's eyes but said nothing. She'd seen that expression before—the subtle tightening in his jaw, the way he avoided meeting anyone's gaze when the topic brushed too close to something personal. Yato never talked much about his past, but in that fleeting silence, his discomfort said more than words ever could.
Finally, Yato drew in a slow breath and broke the tension with a small, polite smile. "Anyway… if you guys need anything, don't hesitate to let me know." He turned his attention toward Kon, his tone lightening a little. "And make sure you behave while you're showing them around, alright?"
Kon snorted, crossing his arms again. "Tch. Get off my case. I know how to behave."
"Sure you do," Yato said dryly, earning a muffled laugh from Tatsuki.
Before anyone could add another word, Tatsuki suddenly grabbed Yato by the arm with a firm grip. "We'll see you around," she said quickly, giving Fujimaru and Shiyo a small wave before turning to drag Yato away.
"Wait—hey!" Yato stumbled a little as she pulled him down the sidewalk. "You're seriously still mad about the game?"
"Shut up and just come with me," Tatsuki replied, her voice sharper than usual—but not with anger. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pressed tight, and her expression was more frustrated than furious. It wasn't about the game anymore, and that realization made Yato's confusion deepen. Something else was on her mind, but she didn't seem ready to talk about it.
Behind them, Fujimaru waved calmly. "See you later, Yato-san! Tatsuki-san!"
"Take care!" Shiyo added brightly, waving both hands with her usual enthusiasm.
[Gonzales Gym]
A sharp thud reverberated through the gym, the sound of impact echoing off the cracked walls. Dust shook loose from one of the ceiling lights as Sado hit the mat hard, his back skidding slightly against the worn canvas before he propped himself up on one elbow — eyes wide in disbelief.
Across from him, his sparring partner — the man Miguel had introduced only as Sergeant Guru — stood perfectly steady, gloves still raised, breathing calm and controlled. The man's expression was unreadable, but there was a faint glimmer of respect in his eyes.
Sado's chest rose and fell heavily. His knuckles throbbed. Sweat ran down his temples, tracing paths through the faint chalk dust clinging to his skin. Despite his towering frame and monstrous strength, he hadn't been able to keep up. Guru's movements were sharp, efficient — each punch placed with surgical precision, each dodge an effortless shift of balance.
At first, the bout had been even. A few testing jabs, probing for rhythm. But once Guru began to take things seriously, the difference became painfully clear. His timing, his instincts — it was as if he could read Sado, predicting every move before it even started.
A heavy silence followed.
Then Miguel's gravelly voice broke through it, tinged with approval. "I think that's enough for today."
He leaned against the ropes, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. To him, the sparring match had already served its purpose — not just confirming that his old friend hadn't lost his edge, but also watching Sado finally let himself go, even if only for a few moments.
Guru tugged at the laces of his gloves, pulling them off with practiced ease. He made his way toward the corner where Miguel stood, wiping a sheen of sweat from his jaw.
"What do you think, Sergeant Guru?" Miguel asked, tone playful but curious.
The man gave a low hum, his gaze flicking briefly toward Chad, who was now sitting up, breathing deeply. "He's strong — no doubt about it. Tough, too. He can take a hit like a tank," Guru began, flexing his right wrist. "But he hesitates. Holds back. Even when he gets serious, his movements get… stiff. Predictable. He relies too much on raw power instead of flow."
He casually looked at his right arm, showing a darkening bruise near his forearm. "His left — that's where the real danger is. It's absurdly strong, but he doesn't trust it. I kept giving him openings, and he still threw rights by reflex."
Miguel's eyes glinted knowingly. That was exactly what he'd expected. He watched as Guru climbed out of the ring and walked toward the locker room, shoulders relaxed but his steps still carrying the weight of a soldier.
With a small grunt, Miguel pushed himself into the ring and approached Sado. "Well? How you feelin', Tora?"
Sado rubbed the back of his neck, his voice quiet but steady. "Your friend's… really strong, Coach Miguel."
He stood, brushing dust from his clothes, still processing what had just happened. His heartbeat was steadying, but his mind wasn't. What unsettled him wasn't just losing — it was how he lost.
He hadn't felt a single trace of spiritual energy from the man. Not even a flicker. Yet, Guru had completely outclassed him — dominated the ring through skill alone.
If Guru did possessed spiritual power, then he must've been suppressing it perfectly — something only someone highly experienced, like the captains of the Soul Society, could do. But if he didn't… that made it all the more impressive.
Even with all his supernatural strength, even with the powers that separated him from ordinary humans — none of it had helped against pure experience.
'So this is what experience feels like,' Chad thought quietly.
Miguel studied his student for a moment, recognizing the look in his eyes — that rare flicker of humility mixed with determination.
"Coach Miguel…" he said, glancing toward the locker room door where Guru had disappeared. "If he's staying in town for a while… do you think he'd train with me?"
Miguel looked at him over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "You can ask him yourself," he replied, his tone thoughtful. "I've known that man for years, and I've never seen him take on a student. He's not the type to settle down and teach. When he spars, it's like he's not even here — like part of him's stuck somewhere else entirely."
The old coach leaned back against the ropes, arms folded across his chest. "He's military, kid. Been through hell, probably more than he lets on. And I'm not the kind of man who pries into ghosts that don't wanna be talked about." He shrugged, letting the silence hang for a few seconds.
Just then, the creak of the locker room door cut through the still air.
The sergeant emerged — no longer in his training gear, but dressed in a fitted dark purple A-shirt trimmed in white, green cargo pants, and black combat boots polished enough to catch the morning light spilling through the windows. A weathered backpack hung from one shoulder, and his hands were wrapped in orange fingerless gloves. His every movement was crisp and deliberate, the quiet posture of a man who'd lived his life under discipline.
Miguel's grin widened as he waved him over. "How about a drink, Sergeant? My treat." His voice carried that usual teasing warmth. "Consider it payment for putting up with Tora's punches."
Guru gave him a flat look, clearly on the verge of refusing. But after a long sigh, he relented. "Fine. You're buying. I'm broke anyway." His tone was dry, but not without a hint of amusement — like a man too tired to argue with an old friend.
Sado stepped down from the ring, wiping the sweat from his brow with the towel draped over his shoulder. He approached the two men and offered a respectful nod toward the soldier. "Thank you for the training. If it's not too much to ask, I'd really like to learn from you again sometime."
For a moment, the sergeant stared at him, expression unreadable. His jaw tightened slightly, and he scratched absently at his light-gray hair, clearly irritated. His gaze flicked toward Miguel, who had suddenly found something fascinating on the far wall and was whistling like he hadn't heard a word.
Guru groaned under his breath, grinding his teeth. "Listen, kid…" he muttered. "I've got a lot on my plate right now. Stuff I need to handle." His tone softened slightly as he exhaled. "Maybe I'll make time to help you out. Maybe. No promises."
Sado smiled faintly — small, but genuine. "Thank you, uh… Sergeant Guru."
The nickname hit like a jab to the temple. A muscle twitched near the man's eye, and Miguel immediately burst into laughter.
Guru shot the coach a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Don't pick up his damn habit of using stupid nicknames," he muttered, crossing his arms. After a brief pause, he straightened his posture and met Sado's gaze directly. His voice was firm now, stripped of all pretense.
"My name's Kensei Muguruma."