The subterranean training arena hums with low-frequency pulses of neon light. Vast mats ripple underfoot like glass waves, and speakers hidden in the ceiling drop industrial techno beats into the air. Eli Quinn steps onto the floor, her taped chest tight against the compression shirt. Across from her, Lucien Blake stands in tactical training gloves, posture rigid, eyes narrowed in focus.
“Ready?" he asks, voice quiet over the thump of bass.
Elara nods, taut. “Always."
They circle, studying each other's stance. The system's interface pings: **“Proximity +12; Intimacy +5 if physical contact occurs."** She forces herself to ignore it—this is training, mission protocol, nothing more.
Lucien feints left, then lunges with a precise jab. Elara pivots, blocking with forearm padding. His glove
