The question came when most of them thought it was safe again.
That was the problem.
"…You always hit like that?"
The man who asked sounded genuinely curious.
Not mocking.
Not challenging.
Trying to understand.
Aria paused mid-step.
Didn't turn around right away.
The Kind of Question That Matters
"That," she said, eventually,
"is the wrong question."
The man blinked.
"…Then what's the right one?"
She turned this time.
Looked at him properly.
The Answer Isn't What He Expects
"You should be asking," Aria said calmly,
'Why didn't I hit harder?'"
The corridor went quiet again.
Not tense.
Attentive.
Strength Without Emotion
"I don't hit to hurt," she continued.
"I hit to end problems."
She tapped the wall lightly with her knuckles.
A small sound.
Sharp.
"Pain is noise.
Damage is information."
No one interrupted.
No one dared.
The Man Tries Again
"…Then back then," he said carefully,
"were you holding back too?"
Aria considered him for a second longer than necessary.
"Yes," she said.
"Just less."
That answer landed harder than denial.
Noah Understands the Subtext
From the doorway, Noah swallowed.
"…She wasn't cruel," he realized.
"…She was precise."
Everything he remembered—the speed, the efficiency, the fear—
None of it had been excess.
It had been restraint.
Aria Clarifies the Difference
"Strength isn't how hard you hit," she said, voice even.
"It's knowing exactly how little you need."
She looked down the corridor.
"At my age, you don't prove things.
You manage outcomes."
The Question Dies Properly
The man nodded slowly.
Not embarrassed.
Educated.
"…Got it," he said.
Aria nodded once in return.
Closing Beat
She turned and walked away again.
Behind her, no one asked another question.
Because they finally understood something fundamental:
She didn't fight to win.
She fought to finish.
And that was why—
Even now—
No one ever wanted to be on the receiving end of her answer.