Kaito was already on the mats, moving with quiet precision. His shadow stretched long across the floor, almost blending with the reflections of the neon lights through the paper windows. He turned as Shahaan stepped onto the mat.
"Footwork tonight," Kaito said simply. "Every strike begins and ends with your feet. If you cannot move, you cannot defend. If you cannot defend, you cannot protect."
Shahaan nodded and positioned himself. He tried to recall the sequences from previous days: step, pivot, stance, balance. His legs trembled, small beads of sweat dripping into his eyes. Kaito circled him silently, occasionally adjusting his posture.
"You are tense," Kaito said. "Relax, trust the ground. Your feet should carry you, not trap you."
Shahaan tried again, forcing himself to focus on each movement. Step, pivot, slide. Step, pivot, slide. Each repetition was exhausting. His chest burned, his arms shook, and his vision blurred slightly from fatigue. But slowly, imperceptibly, his movements became smoother. He stumbled less, his weight shifted more naturally.
Kaito watched him without comment, but Shahaan felt the faintest nod of approval in his gaze. It was enough to push him further.
After an hour of footwork, Kaito paired him with another student. They moved slowly, striking and countering under controlled conditions. Shahaan blocked an incoming punch successfully for the first time, the small victory sending a jolt of confidence through him. He smiled briefly, but quickly refocused. There was no room for complacency.
"Good," Kaito said. "Control is meaningless without awareness. The streets are always moving, always changing. You will need both to survive."
Shahaan's mind drifted briefly to Kabukicho outside. He thought of the alleys, the small boy he had defended, the bullies waiting to pounce. The city felt alive in a way he had never noticed before. Every shadow, every flickering neon sign, every distant shout was a signal. He could feel it now, connecting in his mind with the lessons he was learning on the mat.
After training, Shahaan walked home slowly, stepping carefully over puddles and discarded wrappers. The night was quieter than usual, but the streets still seemed to hum with anticipation. He noticed small details—the way a streetlamp flickered near a shuttered storefront, the movement of a figure in a doorway, the distant laugh of someone celebrating a minor victory.
It struck him that survival in Kabukicho was not about brute strength alone. It was observation, timing, and understanding. The city would punish the careless. It would reward those who learned its rhythms.
Shahaan reached the corner where he usually waited for the bus home. He paused, feeling the weight of the night press around him. His legs ached, his arms burned, and yet he felt awake, alive, and more alert than ever before.
Tomorrow, he would train again. The day after, the streets would test him again. Step by step, lesson by lesson, he was beginning to understand what it meant to stand, what it meant to protect, and what it meant to survive.
Kabukicho was watching, as always. And for the first time, Shahaan felt that it was not entirely against him.