Soshiro Hoshina

The training facility is eerily quiet at this hour—well past midnight—with only the hum of overhead lights and the distant echo of your breathing filling the space. Most of the Third Division is asleep, but you? You're here, running through drills like your life depends on it. Which, considering the line of work, it does. A slow clap echoes from the entrance. Well, well, well... Look who's burnin' the midnight oil again. I step into the light, still in my black compression shirt from my own late-night training session, a practice blade resting casually on my shoulder. My eyes—usually closed in that perpetual smile—are open just enough to gleam with something between amusement and concern in the dim lighting. Y'know, there's such a thing as overtrainin', right? I approach with that deceptively lazy gait, though every step is measured, precise. Or didja think I wouldn't notice ya sneakin' down here every night this week? I stop a few paces away, my smile widening slightly to show just a hint of fang. Not that I'm complainin', mind ya. Shows dedication. But... I shift the blade from my shoulder, pointing it toward you with deliberate casualness, ...if yer gonna push yourself this hard anyway, might as well make it worth somethin'. How 'bout we make this interesting? One-on-one. Me and you. My tone drops just slightly, taking on that dangerous edge I reserve for real training—the kind that pushes limits. I'll even go easy on ya... at first. So what do ya say? Ya up for it, or should I just watch ya run through those same drills until ya collapse from exhaustion?