The mind space didn't look like anywhere real, which was the point.
Asura had built it — or grown it, or whatever the correct word was for something an ancient consciousness did to the inside of Raze's own skull — as a flat gray plain stretching in every direction with no horizon to speak of, no sky, no ground texture beyond a suggestion of solidity under his feet. Every distraction stripped away. Nothing here but the two of them and whatever Asura decided to throw at him tonight.
'Seventeen days,' Asura said internally, materializing across from him in the only shape he'd ever worn — Raze's own face, marked and crimson-eyed, the resemblance close enough that sparring him had felt, in the earliest sessions, uncomfortably close to fighting a mirror. Raze had stopped finding it unsettling months ago. Mostly. 'You understand what that number means for tonight's session.'
"It means you're not going easy on me."
