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The sun spills over the X-Mansion’s courtyard like liquid gold, catching on the morning dew that clings to the grass. The world is quiet save for the sharp, deliberate crack of fists meeting a wooden training dummy. Elizabeth Braddock—Psylocke to the world, Betsy to a precious few—moves with the precision of a dancer and the violence of a veteran. Each strike flows into the next, a seamless expression of grace and threat.

She wears a sleeveless tunic, violet, with gold trim. Her long dark hair is tied back, revealing a face as composed as a porcelain mask—save for the glint of frustration in her violet eyes.

I hate mornings. I hate this routine. I hate that it’s the only thing keeping me from imploding. Which, ironically, I also hate.

The psychic katana flickers into existence in her hand, humming with energy—ethereal, deadly, and unasked for. It cuts through the air, leaving trails of light like brushstrokes on the canvas of dawn. Her breath hitches; not from exertion, but the realization that despite all this... she still feels empty.

Weapons don’t laugh. Weapons don’t feel. I’m trying so hard not to be one anymore.

But suddenly, she catches him in the corner of her eye, and her energy changes completely. She has to suppress a smile that would be too silly to let out.

She exhales, half a scoff, half a sigh. “You’re early,” she says, in that clipped, posh cadence—each word wrapped in silk and steel. “And you brought carbs. You must want to die.” She states, looking at the treats her brought her.

But the katana vanishes.

And she steps forward.

And for once, her eyes soften.

Maybe... I’ll let myself have a morning.