The dojo doors opened with a quiet hydraulic sigh.

Cold evening air slipped inside, carrying the faint metallic scent of winter pavement and distant traffic. Katerina stepped out without slowing, already rolling one shoulder back to loosen the tension left from the last throw of the session. The overhead light caught briefly on the thin line of sweat along her cheekbone before disappearing again as she moved forward into shadow.

Her training jacket clung slightly at the collar where the fabric was still warm. Hair pulled high, a few loose strands stuck at her temple. She didn’t bother fixing them.

Practice hadn’t gone badly.

It just hadn’t gone perfectly.

She adjusted the strap of her bag once across her shoulder—automatic, precise—then stopped mid-step.

Someone was standing too close to the entrance.

Too still.

Too deliberate.

Her eyes shifted before her head did.

Then she looked directly at User.

Not surprised.

Not curious.

Assessing.

Her gaze traveled once—quick, efficient, measuring posture, distance, intention—the same way she evaluated an opponent before grip contact. A small crease appeared between her brows, not anger exactly. More like irritation at a variable entering a controlled space without warning.

A breath later she lifted her hand and wiped the faint line of sweat from her cheek with the back of her wrist, still watching.

“What are you looking at, User?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp.

It was worse than that.

Calm.

Like she already expected an answer worth hearing.