At the Gym

Rei’s favorite training was her old martial arts routines Aoto had drilled into her. They reminded her of a simpler time and a sense of powerful autonomy. The air in the gym’s dojo hummed with the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Rei’s fists and feet against the heavy sandbag. Sweat plastered her hair to her temples, her focus absolute as she drilled the evasions and strikes she’d learned under the fluorescent tubes of The Den. A few off-duty guards lounged near the entrance, their low murmurs a mix of crude jokes and grudging respect.

“Not half bad for a hostess,” one muttered. “Shut up, she’ll hear you and rat you out to Takumi,” another warned, though his eyes tracked her movements with both personal and professional interest. The dynamic shifted as Shoma entered. He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a true master, his presence instantly commanding the room.

The other guards fell silent, their postures straightening slightly. Rei didn’t stop her routine, but she was acutely aware of him. This was the smug guard Takumi had picked for the favor, the one who had kissed her well enough to make her knees soften, the legendary womanizer of Kuroda Plaza she turned down for Cillian. She could feel his gaze like a mist around her, assessing, calculating.

He leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed, watching her for a full minute as she worked the bag. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, confident rumble that cut through the sound of her punches. “You’re using the Chochin style,” he observed, a crooked smile playing on his lips, “A little Aikido for the throws, a little Judo for the holds, a little Karate for the strikes. A mongrel style for the mongrel district.” His tone wasn’t insulting, merely stating a fact, “You’re trying to master all of them and mastering none. Your stance is too wide for the throw, your guard is too low for the strike.”

Rei stopped, chest heaving and turned to face him. She knew his type, the arrogance, the skill, the unshakable belief in his own appeal that she had felt in his practiced, sensual kiss. But a restless energy thrummed under her skin. Takumi was still buried in work, a distant, preoccupied figure. Cillian had been meticulously, frustratingly professional for weeks, keeping a careful distance. She was bored, lonely and bustling with a need to blow off steam.

“Thank you, Sensei, please critique me some more won’t you?”, she challenged, her voice breathless but edged. Shoma’s smile widened. He pushed off the wall and stepped onto the mat, his movements fluid and utterly relaxed, “Let me show you with a practice match. No ego, just form.” It was a dare, wrapped in a seductive offer of knowledge. Against her better judgment, Rei nodded, “You’re on.”

They began to circle. Shoma was on a different plane entirely. He didn’t attack; he existed. When she lunged with a strike, he wasn’t there, having shifted his weight with an imperceptible efficiency. “You’re telegraphing,” he murmured, his voice calm as he effortlessly evaded her, “Your shoulder dips. Your eyes give you away.”

He demonstrated the same movement, his body a lesson in economy and power. When she tried a hip throw, he didn’t resist; he flowed with it, his hands gently guiding her hips into the correct position before easily reversing the momentum and stopping just short of taking her to the mat. “Your center of gravity is off,” he explained, his breath warm near her ear, his hands a firm, instructive pressure on her waist before he released her, “You’re using your back, not your legs.”

It was infuriating and exhilarating. He was dismantling her technique with a casual expertise that was impossible to resent. He wasn’t trying to dominate or humiliate her; he was teaching, every move a demonstration of his own profound skill and a subtle, undeniable form of seduction. He was showing her a world of mastery she’d only glimpsed with Aoto, and in her confined existence, the attention was a potent drug.

For a few minutes, under the bright dojo lights, she wasn’t Takumi’s pet or Cillian’s cautious benched friend. She was just a student, he was the master and the complex, dangerous game of power and desire was momentarily forgotten in the pure, physical language of the fight.

Rei’s back hit the floor, she waved an exhausted hand, signaling the end of their match. She scrambled back to her feet and stood panting, drenched in sweat that made her thin practice clothes cling to every curve, the ever-present Bicoca jewelry glinting against her damp skin. Shoma, in contrast, looked as if he’d just taken a leisurely stroll. A fine sheen of moisture was the only concession to their exertions, his breathing even and controlled.

Rei offered a formal, respectful bow. “Thank you for the instruction,” she said, her voice slightly ragged. She turned and walked to the corner, turning her back to him as she gathered her towel and water bottle. She could feel his gaze on her, a tangible, appreciative heat. She drank half the bottle in one long, desperate gulp, the cool water a shock to her system. Shoma lingered, not making a move to leave.

“You’re not half bad,” he said, his tone casual, conversational, “You pick up the hints faster than I anticipated.” He let his eyes travel over her form openly, without apology, “You’re an interesting student. Charming even.” Rei couldn’t suppress a genuine, breathless laugh. His directness was so audacious it was almost refreshing. She decided to match it. “So, tell me,” she began, slinging her bag over her shoulder and turning to face him, “Are you sour I picked Cillian?”

Shoma looked truly startled for a second, then threw his head back and laughed, a rich, unguarded sound. “Alright, straight to the point. I like it”, he shook his head, a wry grin on his face, “As much as it pains my legendary ego to admit it, yes, a little. I thought my kiss was award-worthy. But I’m not a sore loser. Kelly must have appealed to you more.”

Rei didn’t answer immediately. She adjusted the strap of her bag, a thoughtful look on her face. Then she started walking towards the exit, deliberately passing close by him. “You know Shoma, if anything…”, she said, her voice dropping as she passed within inches, “…your kiss was too good. It felt too practiced.” She paused, biting her bottom lip in a gesture that was both contemplative and deliberately provocative, “I prefer feeling like I’m special, at least enough to not feel like just another conquest, but desired as a whole person.” She met his eyes, her gaze steady, “And I prefer understanding my own desire for a person before committing.”

Shoma’s eyes darkened, savoring her sass. As she moved to leave, his hand shot out with surprising gentleness, his fingers closing around her elbow to spin her back towards him. The touch was firm but not forceful. “Understandable, I feel the same,” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur, “Though I tend to know my own desires a little faster than you, it seems.” The charged moment stretched between them, the air thick with the scent of sweat and unspoken challenge.

“Do you ever train in the evenings?” he asked, “I wouldn’t mind teaching you some more. I usually train late on Thursdays.” He released her elbow, but his hand trailed down her lower arm, his fingers grazing the back of her hand in a final, fleeting caress. “And for the record,” he added, his tone turning serious, his gaze intense, “I never have ‘just conquests.’ I’m not going to pretend I’m not a lover of women, but I am exactly that, a lover, and every woman I desire means something real and something different.”

The unexpected sincerity in his words, the earnest expression on his face, was so at odds with his womanizer admittance and reputation, it caught Rei completely off guard. Her mind, which had been ready with a flippant retort, went blank. She just stared at him, seeing the genuine conviction in his eyes. Then, slowly, an enigmatic smile graced her face.

“Thanks for the match, Shoma,” she said, her voice soft, “See you around.” She turned and walked out of the dojo, leaving the tantalizing possibility hanging in the air behind her, a new and dangerous variable in the already complex equation of her life.