The gym smelled faintly of dust, varnish long faded into something dry and brittle. The once-proud Ashigawa crest at center court was little more than a faint ghost beneath layers of scuff marks. The rafters groaned with every breeze, and thin lines of sunlight cut through the gaps in the old wooden siding.
The only sound in the vast space… was McQueen's flustered voice.
"I–I'm terribly sorry! I didn't mean—oh no—let me—please, stay still—!"
Gold Ship was already doubled over, one hand clapped over her mouth to stop the laugh from spilling out, shoulders shaking so hard she looked like she'd tip over any second.
And in the middle of it all stood Akuma—shirt damp and clinging to him, dark hair dripping—holding a cleaning towel. The faint drip-drip-drip of soapy water hitting the floorboards punctuated the scene.
He had, in fact, been minding his own business fixing a loose board near the center of the court… right before McQueen's overly vigorous attempt at wiping the floor had sent the full bucket of soap water toppling directly over him.
"…It's fine," Akuma said flatly, giving a slow shake of his head as he squeezed water from his hair. "Accidents happen."
McQueen's ears drooped so far they looked ready to slide right off her head, her tail swishing low behind her in pure embarrassment. "Still… I—"
But then Akuma straightened, an oddly thoughtful look crossing his face.
"Actually… this is a good opportunity."
McQueen blinked. "E… excuse me?"
He crouched, setting the soaked towel flat against the wood. "If you do it right, cleaning the floor can double as a speed-and-control drill."
Gold Ship leaned back on her hands, eyeing him like she was watching a magician set up for a trick.
Akuma pressed his palms into the towel, fingers spread, and angled his body forward like a sprinter about to explode from the blocks. "The trick isn't just going fast—it's controlling your stride, keeping consistent pressure so the towel stays flat. You need precision. And if you can keep form while at top speed… it works your legs, your core, and your balance all at once."
And then—he was off.
In two long strides, he pushed the towel forward, feet pounding the wood in a steady, rapid rhythm. The towel glided across the dusty boards, soap water hissing faintly as it spread. Even drenched, his movements were clean, efficient—like a runner in full command of his pace.
By the time he reached the far wall, he had barely spilled a drop from the towel's edges.
McQueen's ears perked slightly, curiosity slipping past her embarrassment. "So… speed and control…"
"Exactly," Akuma said, jogging back. "If you can't keep the towel straight while pushing for speed, you lose efficiency… and the drill is useless."
McQueen hesitated for a heartbeat… then crouched beside him, tail swaying side to side with a quiet flick. "Like this?"
Akuma adjusted her stance. "Weight a little more forward. You're not gliding, you're pressing. Push from the hips, keep your arms locked, and don't let your head bob too much."
She nodded, her face a picture of concentration.
Then they were both off—two parallel streaks running down the gym floor, towels sliding ahead of them. Akuma's form was sharp and exact. McQueen's was a touch more graceful, but less rigid, her movements powered by raw athleticism honed through racing. Soap suds spread in twin lines beneath them as they charged forward, footsteps echoing through the otherwise empty gym.
Gold Ship tilted her head, watching for all of six seconds before sighing. "Boring."
She reached into her jacket pocket and, to absolutely no one's surprise, produced a small shogi board.
"Mischa!" she called, her grin already daring him to refuse.
From the far side of the gym, Mischa strolled over—shirtless, of course—carrying a folded wooden beam like it weighed no more than a feather. His muscles bunched and moved like cables under tanned skin as he set the beam down with a solid thud. "Shogi? Here?" His accent curled around the words, ice-grey eyes flicking to the "training" happening just a few meters away.
"Why not?" Gold Ship said, plopping herself down cross-legged.
Mischa gave the faintest smirk as he sat opposite her. "You vill lose."
Gold Ship grinned wider. "We'll see."
As the game began—Gold Ship muttering nonsense strategies, Mischa responding with the quiet patience of a hunter watching prey—McQueen and Akuma kept moving, sweat now forming along McQueen's hairline. Her breathing stayed even, but there was a spark in her eyes now.
The gym echoed with the slap of bare feet against wood as the two tore down the court again, towels skimming over the floor like they were cutting through water. The streaks they left behind gleamed faintly, a sharp contrast to the dull patches yet to be touched.
Gold Ship and Mischa were in their own little war, hunched over the shogi board like a pair of generals plotting the fall of nations. Mischa's ice-grey eyes scanned the board with all the intensity of a sniper, while Gold Ship grinned like she was seconds away from tipping the whole thing over just for fun.
That was when the double doors creaked open.
In swept Adalbert, not so much walking in as entering, as though an invisible orchestra had struck up just for him. Even dressed down—if you could call immaculately rolled sleeves and spotless trousers "dressed down"—he carried himself like a nobleman arriving to inspect his lands.
"I have completed the arduous labor of weed extraction from the east garden," he declared, voice rich and carrying, "and young Rice Shower has been kind enough to provide—"
He didn't get to finish.
Because as he flourished his sleeve, a fine sprinkling of soil and dry grass fluttered down… right onto the freshly polished stretch of floor.
It was instant.
Akuma didn't even look up from his towel push—his arm just snapped to the side, scooping up the wet cloth, twisting it once, and letting it fly with sniper precision.
THWAP!
The soggy projectile smacked Adal square in the face, leaving a perfect soap-and-water imprint. His golden spectacles tilted precariously, one lens fogged.
"Mind. The. Floor," Akuma barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Adal, ever the dramatist, staggered back as though struck by a cannonball, hands flying to his face. "Hai…!" he gasped, spinning on his heel and retreating so quickly it was unclear if he was going to fetch a handkerchief or write a deathbed will. The heavy doors swung shut behind him, still trembling from the force of his exit.
From somewhere beyond, Rice Shower's muffled voice could be heard. "Onee-chan? Are you okay—"
McQueen had stopped mid-run, bracing her towel against the floor as her ears twitched. She blinked once… then laughed softly, a warm little chuckle that wasn't mocking, just quietly amused. Her tail swayed lazily side to side, a clear sign she was more relaxed than before.
"You throw like that often, Akuma-san?" she asked, a faint sparkle in her eyes.
"Only when people track dirt over my hard work," Akuma replied without missing a beat, already pushing another towel forward again.
Gold Ship was laughing so hard she nearly knocked over the shogi board, while Mischa simply moved his rook and muttered in Russian about "barbaric but effective methods."
The gym was still worn, the paint still peeling… but the air felt lighter now.