The next morning dawns thick and restless. Rain taps against the apartment window as Arohi sits cross-legged on her mat, scratching out last night's events into her diary—steely pride threaded with honest anxiety.
Shruti is still half-asleep but watches silently, respect in her eyes. Last night reshaped her trust in Arohi—not just as a friend, but as someone truly growing into her own strength.
Phone buzzes.
[System notification: "Side Quest Unlocked — Blade Training (Beginner). Today only: Claim a slot with 'Kritika Singh, ex-commando, private instructor.'"]
Arohi hesitates, heart pounding. She's tasted confrontation, barely scraped through. Now she faces the prospect of sharp metal—training that could wound or protect. Resolute, she hits "accept.
The venue: a converted warehouse, cool and echoing, lined with mats and a locked steel cabinet in one corner. Kritika Singh is there—tall, wiry, face etched with the patience (and impatience) of survivors.
Kritika wastes no time.
Kritika: "Self-defense is about memory, not muscle. But today, you'll need both. Knife can save or scar. You ready to learn which?"
Arohi swallows her nerves and nods.
First, footwork—how to stay balanced when threatened. Then, the feel of a training blade in her palm: heavy, cold, a physical reminder of risk.
Kritika demonstrates slow, fluid movements—parry, block, retreat, disarm.
Failure stings: more than once, Arohi's grip slips, earning a tap on the knuckles. Sweat beads on her brow, doubt tightens her shoulders. She falters, but looks Kritika in the eye every time.
Kritika (quietly, not unkind): "I've seen feisty girls give up when things cut back. Don't. Pain is a teacher—don't run from it."
Arohi steadies; the next round, she turns a small slip into a clever feint, drawing praise.
When Kritika leaves her alone with foam targets, the warehouse feels immense, silent except for the rain.
Arohi finds herself not imagining enemies, but old slights, old fears—murmured gossip, hands that grabbed, betrayals in back rooms. She channels it into the blade's smooth arc, again and again.
After the session, Kritika surprises her by giving a battered but real-handled practice knife.
Kritika: "It's not for show. It's so you never forget what it takes. Practice when no one's watching—one day you might need it."
Arohi thanks her, gratitude awkward but deep.
Her phone pings:
[System: Bladed Weapons (Basic) — 30% Progress. Nerves becoming steel; muscle and mind aligned.]
At home, Shruti sees the bruises on Arohi's hands.
Shruti: "You didn't have to do all of this. Not for them."
Arohi (soft, still fierce): "It's for us. Next time something—or someone—comes for what's ours, I want to be ready."
They clasp hands. The city's chaos is muffled tonight—here, trust and quiet solidarity fill the small room.
Arohi logs today's win, not as a triumph, but a mile-marker. She's not invincible, not yet. But she's no longer helpless. Each blade, each bond, another stitch in her armor.