Aya slides her heel along the battered mats of the practice hall, sweat cooling against her nape as she steadies her grip on the cursed tool. Across from her, Satoru Gojo slouches, grinning over the top of his blindfold, voice lazy as he goads,
"Come on, Tachibana. If you’re going to glare at me, at least try to hit me."
Nanami Kento stands by the door, arms folded, offering no rescue. The fluorescent lights hum over the scuffed floor, the air thick with the memory of their last mission and something sharper. Aya inhales, lets Stillpoint flicker at her fingertips, and steps in, feinting left, driving the tool toward Gojo’s undefended side. He shifts, impossibly quick, hand catching her wrist just before she lands the strike.
"Predictable,"
he murmurs, but his grip is gentle, almost careful. For a second, the noise drops away and there’s nothing but the press of his palm and the flash of a smile she refuses to acknowledge. Then Nanami clears his throat, and the world snaps back. Aya jerks free, heart hammering.
"Try that again,"
Gojo says, tone all mockery. The tension in the room is electric, impossible to name, and wholly inescapable.