Cullen moved first.
He closed distance at a controlled pace—not rushing, the measured approach of someone who had learned that the ice worked better when the contact was deliberate rather than frantic. His ice-coated fists moved slightly ahead of his body, the coating thick enough now to show the density of it, the knuckles crystalline and hard in the morning light.
Kaizen didn't move back.
He waited—the precise neutral stance holding, his eyes on Cullen's approach with the focused attention of someone reading movement for information rather than reacting to it emotionally. His hands were at his sides. Nothing about his posture suggested urgency.
Cullen threw a strike—right hand, direct, aimed at Kaizen's lead shoulder.
Kaizen moved inside it.
