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I attack harder.

Rattan cracks loudly as he blocks. Again. Again. Again.

Sweat begins sliding down my spine as the pace intensifies. My breathing deepens. A bruise already darkens along Luka's left forearm where one strike slipped through his defense. Another blooms across my right shoulder. Neither of us acknowledges it.

Luka drives forward aggressively now, forcing me backward across the mat. I absorb the assault, redirect his momentum, and slam my stick against his wrist.

He grunts. “That was unnecessary.”

“You left an opening,” I reply, circling him.

“You’re in a terrible mood.”

I don’t respond.

Luka exhales through his nose. “As expected.”

I attack again, driving Luka backward across the mat. The pace escalates quickly. Every strike lands harder than the last, the crack of rattan echoing through the gym. Years ago, exchanges like this would have ended with broken bones and blood on the floor. Experience and discipline keep that from happening now.

Mostly.

Luka spins away from a strike aimed toward his shoulder and catches me across the ribs hard enough to sting. I retaliate at once. He blocks. I press harder. The exchange grows increasingly vicious until I drive him backward and he collides with the padded wall.

He shoves away and circles me warily.

“You’re trying to work through something,” he says between breaths.

“I’m training.”

“You left your office after forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t quarterly reports.”

Luka snorts.

Before he can answer, the gym doors open. Roman walks inside. He pauses near the entrance, taking in the scene as Luka and I continue circling one another.

Neither of us lowers our weapons.

Roman folds his arms across his chest. “I see you’re coping well.”

I strike Luka hard enough to force him backward three steps.

Roman watches for another minute before speaking again. “Finish.”

Luka and I continue for another few minutes. Only when exhaustion finally begins dulling my reactions do I lower my sticks. Sweat drenches my shirt. Luka looks no better.

We move toward the benches along the wall, grabbing towels and water bottles while Roman waits in silence. He wouldn’t have come here himself unless the matter was important.

I drag a towel across my face. “What happened?”

Roman waits until Luka closes the gym doors behind us.

He removes a file from beneath his arm and places several photographs on the bench between us. I recognize the shelter laundry room at once. Blackened walls, destroyed shelving, and fire damage dominate every photograph.

“What am I looking at?” I ask, picking up one of the photographs.

“The fire department completed their final report this morning,” he says.