One Win

The sarashi bit into her ribs and Minato’s shard still flashed in her head like the Oroko scale at the onsen; she had no leads, so she went to the tatami to make a racket she could control.

Hanako tightened the cotton wraps until the sting steadied her. Masaki waited across the mats, calm as a stone, bowing with the same quiet ritual they always kept. Training was the one place she could make noise without cracking the mask — a place to turn the static in her skull into something she could measure and fight.

“Osu!” She inhaled and moved. They started apart, like a real match. He had reach; she had speed. Usually that was enough.

She lunged, expecting him to yield. He didn’t. A sleeve caught her wrist, a step slid her balance, and his leg swept hers clean — osoto‑gari — the tatami met her face before her brain could catch up.

Weight pinned her chest, an arm locked behind her back. His knee held her shoulder like a hinge. Breath vanished. _Crap._ She’d misread him.

“Tch. I wasn’t focused.” The excuse tasted thin.

Masaki eased the hold with hands that moved the way he wrapped hot packs – careful and practiced. “No. You’ve grown too used to my routines. You got comfortable.” His voice was even, but he tugged at his collar as he spoke, a small human gesture that made him less statue and more person.

She sat back on her heels, cheeks hot from the mat. He was right and she hated it.

Two more rounds and she lost them both. He kept changing rhythm — charging, retreating, feinting — never the same twice. She couldn’t find the pattern.

“What’s eating you, Ojo?” he asked, offering the water bottle.

“It’s nothing… but kind of everything.” Translation: don’t ask.

The memory of the onsen threaded through her thoughts — cape, gauntlet, scales that shifted like living things. Minato’s shard had been only a sliver, but it had shimmered the same way. Coincidence? Or a warning? She couldn’t risk using Yukikaze in public, and she couldn’t afford to break another school omamori with careless heat.

“Sit.” The word came clipped, more command than plea. Masaki didn’t argue. He crossed to the center of the tatami and lowered himself, steady as always.

She dropped behind him, pressing her back to his. The contact made a small groan escape her - part relief, part irritation.

When did I start doing this? No clue. But his back feels bigger now. Broader. Crap.

She tilted her head and rested her cheek against his shoulder blade. The sarashi dug into her ribs; the council’s static still buzzed at the edges of her hearing. On top of that, she hadn’t scored a single point.

Noise stacked on noise. Perfect.

Masaki didn’t shift. He knew the routine. Whenever she leaned like this, something was gnawing at her. He didn’t prod. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own answer - steady, patient, unasked for.

She let her breath slow. The mask loosened for a sliver of time. Fine. I’ll take this. Just for now.

She needed one win. Just one.

“One more.” She sprang up with a grin she didn’t feel. Masaki sighed and took a defensive stance, the faintest crease at the corner of his mouth that might have been amusement.

She closed in, slipped a sweep, and drew kuji‑kiri fast. Masaki lunged, panic flickering in his eyes as he misread the timing. His hand brushed hers before the last stroke; frost bloomed across the mats and his grip slid. An easy grab, a practiced flip, and she was on top.

“Yatta!” The laugh burst out of her — breathless, stupid, and entirely teenage. For a heartbeat the world brightened; the sound was a small, reckless flare.

Then the rational part of her snapped back. Frost faded. No shadows in the hallways. Mask intact. Masaki saw - of course he did; he always did. Anyone else catching that sound would be a disaster. Not Yukikaze. Not the weapon - my voice. If anyone else heard that, the mask would crack.

“Ojo, that was uncalled for.” His chide came with a thin smile.

“You’ve grown too used to my routines,” she shot back, shiver running through her as she helped him up. “And it’s Hanako.”

She forced the smile into place and swallowed the rest. The shard’s shimmer sat like a splinter under her skin; she kept it there, turning it over in the dark of her thoughts. Later, when she had more to go on about Minato Ryuji, she’d ask Masaki to dig. For now, she trained, plotted, and kept her private voice locked away where no one could use it against her.