The words came from the far left.
Casual.
Careless.
A mistake.
"…You got soft."
The man who said it leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, expression almost amused. He was bigger than most of the others. Slower, too—but not by much.
Aria turned her head.
Just enough.
"…Say that again," she said.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Invitational.
The Challenger Steps Forward
The man pushed off the wall.
Took two steps closer.
Still relaxed.
"You're walking around in heels," he continued.
"Letting civilians bleed on you."
He glanced at Noah.
"Getting sloppy."
The corridor held its breath.
Someone muttered, "…Don't."
The man ignored it.
Why He Thinks He Can Say It
Because he remembered the old hierarchy.
Because Aria hadn't struck anyone yet.
Because softness looked like restraint.
"…You wouldn't have let that happen before," he said.
He smiled.
"You'd have ended it faster."
Aria Smiles
That was new.
Not kind.
Not amused.
Understanding.
"…You think speed was the point," she said.
She stepped forward.
Once.
"Speed was mercy."
The Old Reflexes Stir
Noah straightened painfully.
"…Oh no," he whispered.
He had seen this before.
The smile.
The tone.
The shift in air when she stopped teaching and started correcting.
The Line Is Drawn
Aria stopped two steps from the man.
"You want to test me?" she asked.
The man's grin widened.
"Thought you'd never ask."
Someone else spoke sharply.
"This isn't—"
"—it is," Aria cut in.
She took off her jacket.
Folded it.
Set it neatly on a nearby chair.
The corridor suddenly felt very small.
The Warning No One Ignores
"You get one strike," she said calmly.
"Make it count."
The man laughed.
"You're generous now."
Aria tilted her head.
"No," she replied.
"I'm nostalgic."
Closing Beat
They formed a loose circle without being told.
Old instincts.
Old rituals.
No cheers.
No encouragement.
Just space.
And as the man rolled his shoulders and raised his hands, Noah closed his eyes.
Because whatever happened next—
It wouldn't look soft at all.