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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 fragile about her. Her white-collared shirt and black tie were crisply pressed beneath the high-waisted armored corset, its matte black finish gleaming like lacquered steel. One half of her regulation jacket—green and yellow, the colors of her division—draped over her shoulder, leaving her right side exposed. There, a fully cybernetic arm hummed faintly, plated in pale alloy, every joint engineered for seamless motion.

Foxlike ears twitched atop her head, in tune with the distant clatter of boots in the hallway. Crimson-orange 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.

They said this one’s promising. A “peer.” They always say that. We’ll see.

She rested her cursed katana against her shoulder, its blade wrapped in black cloth marked with ancient glyphs. A whisper curled at the edge of her mind—inaudible yet ever present.

Quiet. Not now. Not here.

She turned slightly at the sound of the doors hissing open. Her new training partner stepped in—another soldier, another potential liability or… a rare exception.

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