The dojo smelled of sweat, old wood, and linseed oil. It was small, tucked between two aging shops, with paint peeling from the walls and the tatami mats worn in the center. Neon light from the streets outside seeped through the paper windows, streaking the interior in red and blue.
Shahaan stepped inside cautiously, rain dripping from his hoodie onto the mat. He felt exposed, small, and painfully aware of the dojo's silence. Every creak of the floorboards sounded loud. He had never been anywhere like this, and part of him wanted to turn and disappear into the wet streets. Another part of him, the part that had noticed the faint respect in Kaito's gray eyes the night before, kept him rooted in place.
"Take off your shoes. Step onto the mat," Kaito said calmly. "You are here now. No turning back."
Shahaan hesitated, then removed his sneakers. The rough texture of the tatami beneath his wet socks sent a shiver up his spine. It was grounding in a strange way, as if the dojo itself demanded respect.
"Stand in the middle. Watch me first."
Kaito demonstrated a low stance, balanced, weight centered. Every punch was controlled, every movement deliberate. There was no flair, no wasted motion, only efficiency.
Shahaan mimicked the stance. His knees shook and his arms were unsteady. It was harder than it looked.
"Relax your shoulders. Do not lock your joints. Let your weight find the floor, not the ceiling," Kaito instructed, walking around him, adjusting his posture with small, precise touches.
Shahaan nodded, absorbing every correction, though it felt overwhelming. He had expected physical exhaustion. This mental strain was new. Every adjustment reminded him how uncoordinated he really was.
"First lesson: awareness," Kaito said. "You cannot fight what you cannot see. Every movement around you is a signal. The streets will tell you where danger comes from if you learn to read them."
He gestured toward the small mirrors on the wall. Shahaan watched himself as he shifted weight, trying to follow Kaito's motions. He looked clumsy and unpracticed, yet a flicker of something, a spark of focus, appeared that had not been there before.
For the next hour, Kaito drilled him on footwork, blocking techniques, and simple strikes. Each time Shahaan made a mistake, Kaito's gray eyes noted it silently. Pain burned in his arms and legs. Sweat stung his eyes, and more than once he wanted to give up.
Each time he wanted to stop, he remembered the alleys, the bullies, the helpless kids on the street. He remembered the flicker of curiosity, the spark that had made him follow Kaito into the dojo the night before.
By the end of the session, Shahaan's body ached in ways he had never known. Every muscle protested. His lungs burned. Yet he had moved correctly through a sequence for the first time, landing a clean stance, feeling the rhythm of footwork and balance click together.
Kaito nodded, not smiling, not frowning. "Not bad. You will get tired. You will make mistakes. But that first step, you took it."
Shahaan exhaled, chest heaving, and allowed himself a small, private sense of accomplishment. It was tiny, almost insignificant, but it felt like a crack in the armor of fear he had carried all his life.
As he left the dojo that night, the rain had stopped. The streets of Kabukicho glimmered, alive with neon reflections and distant sounds. His hoodie clung damply to his back, and his legs were stiff, but he walked a little taller. The fear had not disappeared. There was now a sliver of something else, possibility.
The streets still whispered threats. The bullies still prowled. Yet for the first time, Shahaan felt he could face them differently. Not running. Not hiding. Step by step.
That thought, fragile, fleeting, but real, was enough to light a spark in the heart of Kabukicho's restless night.