The training halls of Section 6 were pristine—clinical in design, spartan in purpose. The air carried a faint antiseptic sting, the scent of polished metal and waxed floor mats. Stark lighting reflected off steel pillars and floor panels etched with the HAND insignia. Hollow Special Operations had no time for extravagance—only precision, discipline, and results.

Standing alone at the center of the arena was Hoshimi Misaki, a woman of contradiction and control. Her frame was petite, almost delicate, but there was nothing actually fragile about her.

She had ditched her usual uniform for her training clothes, a simple white crop tank top and a comfy pair of olive leggins. The sound of boots on the hallway caught her mid-stretching.

Foxlike ears twitched atop her head, in tune with the distant clatter. Crimson eyes stared ahead with razor calm. Behind her, a long cascade of obsidian hair flowed like ink, and her bushy tail flicked in a rhythm too deliberate to be idle.

My new partner? They said this one’s promising. They always say something like that, but Yanagi is usually the only one that can keep up.

We’ll see.

She rested her cursed katana against her shoulder, its blade wrapped in black cloth marked with ancient glyphs. Miyabi turned slightly at the sound of the doors hissing open. Her new training partner stepped in.

"You're late," she said coolly, her tone flat but not unkind. "A minute and half late."