It was the last week of the last month in the year 169 after the genocide of the airbenders.
Winter hugged Republic City barely. Frost gathered on rooftops only to melt hours later, washed away by the heat from pipes and vents.
Inside Jinyong's workshop, light from the windows spilled across the training mat in the center of the room.
Jinyong stood there, his hands raised, eyes fixed on the person in front of him. Asami.
Seventeen now, just like him. Her hair was tied back, her stance ready.
They circled each other in silence. Slow steps. Careful breathing. Waiting for a mistake that neither of them was willing to make.
Their eyes met, a flicker of competition sparked between them. They had done this many times.
Then Asami moved first.
Her leg swung up, fast, aiming for his side.
Jinyong blocked it with both arms, catching her shin midair before she could follow through. She reacted instantly, twisting her body and raising her other leg, trying to hook his grip and force a counterbalance.
He released her just in time and stepped back.
She landed on the ground lightly, turning it into a roll, and stood again.
They began circling again, this time faster.
Then the real fight started: hands flashing, feet shifting across the mat.
Strikes turned to counters. Jinyong dodged a blow to the neck and countered with a palm aimed for her ribs, but she twisted aside and caught his arm, trying to press her thumb into a nerve cluster. He pulled away, parried, and struck back.
The rhythm of their chi-blocking exchange was like a dance. She went low; he pivoted. She feinted high; he caught her wrist and deflected.
Then his fingers found their mark.
A quick jab to the shoulder. A second to the forearm. A third to the wrist.
Her arm went limp, falling to her side uselessly.
"Damn it," she muttered.
Jinyong exhaled softly, lowering his stance. "Maybe one of these days you'll get to beat me."
"So close." She grumbled, pressing her fingers to specific spots on her arm until sensation returned. A faint tingling ran down her hand as she flexed it back into motion. "Does this mean I don't need to train anymore?"
He grabbed a towel from the worktable nearby and wiped his sweat. Even in the chill of winter, he was sweating from the spar.
"You learn fast, I'll give you that. Three years… been that long, huh?" He leaned against the desk, catching his breath. "Fine. You don't have to come here anymore for training. Still, if you want to spar now and then, you can always call me."
She smiled faintly, walking to her bag in the corner and picking up her towel. "Then thank you for the lessons… master."
Jinyong rolled his eyes. "I told you not to call me that, Asami."
She giggled, wiping her face. "You're not even blushing anymore when I say that."
He gave her a tired grin. "Guess I built resistance."
She walked up to him. For a moment, she just looked at him, sweat on his neck, hair slightly messy from training.
Then she closed the distance. Close enough that her breath mixed with his.
He didn't move, didn't say anything. Just watched her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was about to make a joke.
But before he could, she kissed him.
It wasn't rushed. The kind that lingered. Her hand brushed his jaw, her thumb tracing lightly over his cheek.
When she pulled away, her face stayed close. Her eyes flicked to his lips, then up again. Her cheeks were pink, and she bit her bottom lip like she was trying not to grin.
"So… about tonight…" she murmured.
He brushed his thumb along her cheek. "I have to go meet my father first about something," he said softly. "Maybe I'll meet you there?"
She nodded, still a little breathless, then took a small step back, walking back to her bag. Her blush hadn't faded, though she tried to mask it with a smile. "Do you want me to buy snacks for you?"
"The usual," he said.
"Popcorn then." She hummed as she packed her bag. "Alright, I'll see you tonight. Bye."
Jinyong watched her leave, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
He stood there for a moment, letting the silence return, then sighed softly.
He turned toward a corner of the workshop, a spot that looked ordinary enough. Just another cluttered desk with loose bolts, blueprints, and tools scattered over it. But beneath it was a small switch.
He knelt and pressed it.
A quiet mechanical click echoed through the floor, and a portion of it slid open, revealing a trap door with a ladder leading down.
Jinyong descended slowly. When his feet touched the ground, he reached out and flipped a light switch.
Bulbs flickered on, one by one, revealing the secret workshop beneath.
Weapons lined the racks, automatic rifles, pistols, long-range rifles, compact carbines. Beside them were stacks of ammunition, crates filled with gunpowder cartridges, grenades, and a few prototype tubes that looked suspiciously like launchers.
On the far side of the room stood the tools of his craft: lathes, milling machines, bullet assembly presses, chemistry tables for mixing, and parts waiting for assembly.
Every trace of this gun project of his, was now down here.
He walked past the shelves, eyes scanning each weapon.
He had built every one of them with his own hands. Some were crude at first. Others, refined over time.
He stopped at a rack holding a few of his finest pieces, a sniper, a compact automatic rifle, and two pistols of his own design.
He picked up a duffel bag from the floor and began packing them carefully, along with boxes of ammunition and spare parts.
He slung it over his shoulder and climbed back up, closing the trap door and sealing it once more.
He grabbed his coat, zipped it up, and stepped toward the door. The duffel bag hung heavy at his side.
He took one last look at the workshop before turning off the lights.
Then he left, heading out into the chill, bound for his father's office.
—
Inside his father's office, Jinyong dropped the duffel bag in front of the desk with a dull thud.
Wonyong looked up from his paperwork, one brow raised. "What is this?"
"Weapons that I made," Jinyong said, taking a seat across from him. "You read my proposal that I sent you last month, father? You never said yes or no."
"You mean this." Wonyong opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. The first page bore the title in neat print: Keum Security. "A private security company. Really?"
Jinyong nodded. "Look, father. We've… entangled ourselves with Hiroshi more and more these days. I think it's a good idea to at least amass a private force to defend ourselves when we betray them."
"And whose fault is that?"
"It's either that, or cutting contacts with them, father." Jinyong leaned forward slightly. "Without your cooperation with Hiroshi, our company wouldn't even be the second biggest in the city right now, right?"
"It was your products that pushed it to that," Wonyong said.
"Products that we couldn't produce without that cooperation," Jinyong sighed. "At the end of the day, we're still a real estate company more than anything. Now, we're more diverse because of that cooperation. Manufactures of appliances, beauty products, you name it."
Wonyong massaged his brow. "And now you want to diversify again. With this… private security company. Using your weapons."
Jinyong hummed. "We'll hire exclusively non-benders. We'll offer escort services, protection, and so on. Only defense. We're not assassins. We have nothing to lose from it."
"Your weapon design is new. People practically haven't seen it." Wonyong leaned back in his chair. "If we hire non-benders exclusively, no one's going to trust us. They'll ask what a bunch of non-benders with strange weapons could possibly do against trained benders."
Jinyong hummed again, quietly this time. "I suppose so."
"Jinyong…" Wonyong muttered, his tone softening. "There's also the matter of the Equalists. They still want it, you know? Hiroshi keeps asking me about the production of your weapons for their cause. I keep declining, of course, but you're growing up quickly, and the excuse that you're still under my wing and that I don't want you involved in this mess is getting stale. If I suddenly make this company, they'll push harder for it, and I'll have no excuse left."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to produce my weapons for them either."
"Too late. Our company already is making weapons for them," Wonyong murmured. "Do you know what they're building in our underground factories? Robot tanks made out of platinum, so that metalbenders can't touch them. Tanks that can eject high-voltage electricity and all kinds of gases, sleeping gas, poison. I don't know what I'll do if they actually use them in the city. But all for the sake of profits, am I right?"
"Then be the ears, father. Use your judgment." Jinyong said. "The whole point is that we betray them at the most important moment, am I right?"
Wonyong sighed deeply, staring at the stack of papers. "I know. Still, I don't want that moment to come too soon. Asami is still young, and—"
"She can handle herself. She's more capable than you think," Jinyong said.
"I'm not talking about her capabilities of leading an entire company." Wonyong frowned. "You're very close to her. I'm talking about how she'll react to her father's deeds or the fact that you knew all along, betrayed him, and never told her."
"I know," Jinyong muttered. "And my point still stands. Though I'm not looking forward to it. I guess I got too entangled in this mess."
"Women will do that to you, son," Wonyong said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "They make you care. And I can see that you care for her."
Jinyong only hummed in response, eyes lowering for a moment. "Well, I should leave. You're right. Better to pause the plans for the security company for now."
"We can revisit it later," Wonyong nodded, glancing toward the bag. "The weapons, I'll keep them here. In case I decide to look into them myself."
"Fine by me," Jinyong said, standing.
"But stay," Wonyong added. "Your mother misses you. At least have dinner."
Jinyong gave a small nod. "Alright. But I have to go after it."
—
The dining room glowed warm with light, the chandelier reflecting off crystal glasses and polished silver. The table was long, dressed in white linen, filled with dishes that steamed and shimmered under the glow. Tonight's centerpiece was a rock-crab soufflé. The smell alone spoke of money. Clearly, Jinyong's parents were celebrating something, though he wasn't sure what.
He cut into the soufflé quietly, the crust flaking apart perfectly.
"You're not going to stay for New Year's?" his mother asked.
"No," Jinyong said, sipping his tea. "I'm going to the pro-bending tournament. Watching it with Asami."
"Asami?" his mother's face brightened at the name. "When are you going to bring her here again? She was nice the last time."
Jinyong shrugged slightly. "Well, I don't know. Maybe later." He chewed for a moment, then looked up. "By the way, you're still using the beauty products I made, right, Mother? Not those expensive ones from the market?"
"Well of course." She smiled, touching her cheek with a small hint of pride. "It feels nicer. Actually effective too."
Jinyong hummed, pleased. "Well, I'm just saying. A lot of those products out there are basically poisonous."
His father frowned, setting down his glass. "What do you mean?"
"Lead," Jinyong said simply. "They contain a lot of it. There's not much research on it yet, but prolonged exposure to lead is… deadly."
"And you're telling me this now?" Wonyong raised a brow. "That could be a good marketing point."
"I just don't want to bother writing the papers for it," Jinyong said. "But I'll send you the data later if you want."
"Well, thank the spirits I don't have to wear any of it," his mother said with a hum. "Who would've thought you'd make beauty products? I would've guessed you'd continue the appliances line. Is it because of Asami?"
Jinyong sighed, cutting another piece of the soufflé. "No. It's just very marketable these days. And like I said, most of the ones on the market have lead. I just wanted to make a safer option for the ones who use it."
"So it is because of Asami," she teased, smirking.
"Mother." Jinyong rolled his eyes. "I may be seventeen, but I'm not that lovestruck."
"Sure," she said, amused. "Don't forget to eat properly, okay? I can't monitor what you're eating there."
"It's been three years. I know how to eat correctly," Jinyong said dryly.
His father chuckled quietly into his drink.
The family kept talking as they ate. Light, easy conversation about business, recipes, and whatever strange ideas crossed Jinyong's mind that night. The house felt alive, if only for a while.