"With every ounce of my being," I repeated, my voice echoing against the gym walls.

  Victor looked at me for a long beat, his expression uncharacteristically flat. "Really now? Every ounce?" He shifted his weight, sitting cross-legged on the mat. "Then let me ask you this—why do you think he makes you train harder? Why doesn't he just lock you in your room or ground you like a normal kid?"

  I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Because he’s trying to kill me. He wants to see how much I can take before I finally break so he can replace me with someone more 'efficient'."

  "No," Victor said, his voice dropping into a register so serious it made my breath hitch. "He does it because he’s terrified. He wants you to get strong enough so that one day, when he isn't around to lead the way, you can stand on your own. He’s not training an assassin; he’s training a survivor."

  I scoffed, looking at my swollen ankle. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that? He stood there and watched Royce—"

  "Do I look like I would just tell you this out of comfort?" Victor interrupted, his gaze piercing.

  I remained silent. I searched Victor’s face for any sign of a lie, any trace of the usual playfulness, but there was none. Victor looked deadly serious.

  "Your father is being especially hard this time around because of the target they are after," Victor continued, his voice dropping to a cautious, low register.

  I froze. I realized then that I had never been informed about the specific target. My father had just snapped at me, telling me I wasn't joining this mission and to focus on my training. "Who is it?" I whispered.

  Victor leaned in, his shadow stretching across the mats. He leaned toward my ear, his breath barely a ghost of a sound.

  "Mr. Volpe."

  My blood ran cold. I felt a physical chill wash over me. I had never seen the man in person, but in the circles my family moved in, that name was a nightmare. They called him the Fox of the Underworld.

  Volpe was an anomaly, a mafia boss. In a world ruled by raw strength and bags of money, Volpe had managed to claw his way to the top using nothing but pure, terrifying manipulation. People said he didn't even need to pull a trigger; he just talked people into their own graves.

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  I couldn't believe Father would accept a job like that. It wasn't just a high-profile hit; it was a gamble against a man who turned everyone into a puppet. But then again, we are a neutral party. We just point our guns where we are told to shoot, no questions asked.

  "Do you understand now?" Victor asked, his eyes searching mine. "He’s terrified that if you aren't sharp enough, Volpe will find a way to use you to get to him. So... cut him some slack, okay?"

  I stared at my hands, the weight of the name Volpe settling in my chest like lead. The pressure, the training, the coldness—it wasn't just about the Thornveils. It was about the fox at the door.

  "Fine..." I muttered, my voice small and defeated. "Fine. I get it."

  Just as the words left my lips, the heavy gym doors slammed open with a sound like a gunshot. Dr. Nexari marched in like a storm cloud, her white coat billowing behind her like a battle cape and her medical bag swinging with a sense of impending doom.

  "OUT!" She didn't even look at Victor as she pointed a finger toward the exit. "Out, I will personally test my new sedatives on you. Get out. Now."

  Victor held up his hands in mock surrender, flashing me one last meaningful look before scrambling to his feet. "Message received, Doc. Healing vibes only!"

  He vanished through the door just as Dr. Nexari knelt down in front of me, her expression a terrifying mix of clinical focus and pure maternal rage. She gripped my swollen ankle with firm, cold hands, and I couldn't help the small whimper that escaped my throat.

  "I told you to stay off it, Hitori," Dr. Nexari said, her voice a low, dangerous hum. "Now, stay still. We’re going to see exactly how much damage your 'pride' caused tonight."

  My temper flared despite the pain. I sharply yanked my ankle away from her grasp, though the movement made my vision swim. "My pride has nothing to do with this! Isla made me fight her!"

  The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Dr. Nexari froze, her head snapping toward Isla with a mechanical, terrifying slowness. Her rage was now aimed entirely at the combat instructor.

  Isla didn't even flinch, though she did take a half-step back. "Don’t look at me like that, Doc. It was the Boss’s orders. He told me to amp it up and remind him of the 'dangers of the world.' You know as well as I do—whatever he says, goes."

  Dr. Nexari let out a long, weary sigh that sounded more like a growl. She turned back to me, her hands much gentler this time as she secured my leg. She poked and prodded the swollen joint, her face hardening as she ran through the mental checklist of my idiocy.

  "Do you have any idea what you've done?" Dr. Nexari barked, her voice echoing in the gym as she stood up and wiped her hands. "When you walked in here with that, you had a simple Grade I strain. One week of rest, maybe some light stretching, and you would have been fine."

  She gestured aggressively at the dark, angry swelling around my ankle bone. "But because you couldn't say 'no' to a sparring match and decided to pivot on a damaged joint, you’ve shredded the fibers. You didn't just 'aggravate' it, Hitori. You turned a one-week minor inconvenience into a six-week healing journey."

  She leaned down, her face inches from mine. "And if I catch you trying to 'power through' the pain or sneaking out to see that Thornveil boy before I clear you, I will make sure the next six weeks are spent in a full-leg cast. Am I clear?"

  "Crystal," I muttered.