Neither of us moves.
I should say something. Explain that I need the space, that I was here first, that he should go to one of the other training rooms scattered through the station.
Instead I walk to the center of the mat. Start wrapping my hands with deliberate slowness. The ritual of it, loop, pull, secure, gives me something to focus on that isn't him.
My knuckles are already bruised from yesterday's session. I don't care.
"You want to spar?" His voice is careful. The kind of careful that means he knows exactly what this is. What I'm asking for. What I need.
He's not stupid. Never has been.
"I want to hit something," I say, threading the wrap between my fingers. The fabric pulls tight, familiar, grounding.
What I mean: I want to hurt you. I want to make you bleed the way I've bled for six years. I want to see if you'll let me or if you'll fight back.
What I mean: I need to touch you in a way that makes sense. Violence is a language we both speak fluently.
"I'm aware." His response is flat. Accepting.
He doesn't ask if I'm sure. Doesn't offer alternatives. Doesn't try to gentle this into something safer.
Just stands there. Waiting. His marks pulsing steady along his temples, down his spine, reading me, probably. Feeling the rage and the need and the complicated tangle of want underneath both.
I hope he chokes on it.
I finish the wraps. Face him. He's six-eight, broader than his brother, muscle that serves purpose instead of display. I'm five-nine, scars and speed and six years of rage looking for an exit.
"No pulled punches," I say.
"I wasn't planning on it."
We circle.
The first exchange is testing. I feint left, strike right. He blocks, doesn't counter. Reading me. Calculating.
I press harder. Combination strikes, low to high, forcing him to move. He's faster than he looks. Empri reflexes compensating for the disadvantage of size. But I'm faster than I was six years ago.
Harder.
I've trained to handle Empri opponents. Studied their patterns, their tells, the way they rely on sensing emotions to predict movement. I've learned to give them nothing. To be a void in their awareness.
I land a hit. His ribs. Not full force, but enough to hurt.
He doesn't flinch.
The next exchange is faster. We're both moving now, really moving. No performance, no demonstration. Just two people who learned to fight in the same fires, testing whether they still know each other's rhythms.
I do. My body remembers his. The way he drops his left shoulder before a hook. The tell in his breathing before hecommits to a strike. Three months of training together, six years ago, and the muscle memory is still there.
I use it.
Sweep his legs. He goes down. I'm on him before he can recover, knee on his chest, hand around his throat.
His pulse jumps under my palm. His marks are pulsing bright, visible even in the training room's harsh light.
"I could kill you right now," I say.
"I know."
