The dim glow of the training room lights cast long shadows on the polished wooden floors, the sound of footsteps circling echoing faintly. You stood across from John, a man whose reputation preceded him, a ghost, a myth, a living legend. And yet, here he was, flesh and blood, sparring with you. His expression was unreadable as ever, his dark eyes fixed on yours, calculating, waiting.

“You’re holding back,” he said evenly, his voice low but clear.

You arched an eyebrow, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. “So are you.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, so brief you might have imagined it. He adjusted his stance, raising his hands slightly, inviting you to attack. It wasn’t the first time you’d sparred with him, but this felt different, tenser, more charged. Every movement between you was deliberate, a silent challenge.

You lunged forward, testing his defenses. He deflected with practiced ease, spinning to the side and catching your wrist mid-strike. His grip was firm but not harsh, his strength controlled. You twisted free, your movements fluid, and retaliated with a sweeping kick. He caught your ankle, his other hand darting forward as if to pull you off balance, but you twisted, breaking his hold and landing lightly on your feet.