Director Song arranged the instructor herself, a retired Tier 2 combat specialist named Officer Han — no relation, a coincidence that made Ryan’s mother laugh for the first time in what felt like weeks when she heard the name — who arrived at a quiet gym Song had access to twice a week, evenings, with the specific brisk patience of someone who’d trained hundreds of nervous teenagers before Ryan and would train hundreds more after.
“I’m not going to teach you to fight in two weeks,” she told him plainly, the first evening, watching him shift his weight uncertainly on the mat.
“Anyone who tells you that’s possible is selling you something.
What I can teach you is how to not panic when your body does something you didn’t plan for.
That’s usually the difference between someone who survives an unexpected manifestation and someone who gets hurt by their own untrained power.”
“That’s oddly reassuring and terrifying at the same time.”
“Most useful truths are.” She adjusted his stance with two efficient taps, no wasted movement.
“Again.”
The sessions were exhausting in a way Ryan hadn’t anticipated — not just physically, though his muscles ached in unfamiliar places by the end of each one, but mentally, the constant effort of staying present in his own body, learning to notice the small physical signals Officer Han insisted mattered more than raw strength ever would.
“Resonance-type abilities are unpredictable specifically because they respond to external stimulus,” she explained, midway through the second week, walking him through a breathing exercise that felt almost meditative compared to the drills.
“Most Awakened learn to control an internal source — their own fire, their own strength, something that originates with them.
Yours, if the specialists are right about what triggered on that street, responds to something outside you.
That makes it powerful and genuinely dangerous in equal measure, because you can’t fully predict what you’ll be matching until the moment arrives.”
“So how do I control something I can’t predict?”
“You don’t control the trigger.
You control yourself around it.” She tapped his sternum lightly.
“Breath steady.
Mind clear.
The less panic you bring into the moment, the cleaner whatever response comes out the other side.
Panic amplifies chaos.
Calm channels it.” A small, approving nod as he settled into the stance correctly.
“You’re a naturally observant kid, from what your file says.
Most people your age haven’t learned to notice their own bodies yet.
You already have, out of necessity.
We’re just giving that instinct somewhere useful to go.”
Ji-hoon started showing up to watch on the second week, arriving quietly partway through each session and settling onto a bench near the wall without comment, present but never intrusive — until, on the fourth evening, Officer Han finally addressed him directly.
“You going to keep lurking, or are you going to make yourself useful?”
Ji-hoon straightened, faintly caught out.
“Didn’t want to intrude.”
“You’ve been here four sessions.
You’re already intruding.
Might as well earn your seat.” She gestured him onto the mat with brisk efficiency.
“Spar with him.
Light contact.
I want to see how he handles pressure from someone he actually trusts, versus pressure from a stranger.”
Ryan caught the flicker of hesitation cross Ji-hoon’s face — brief, careful, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then don’t,” Officer Han said simply.
“Control is exactly the point of this exercise.
If you can’t manage light contact without losing composure, that tells me something useful about you too.”
Something about the way she said it made Ryan wonder, not for the first time, whether Officer Han had already guessed more about Ji-hoon than either of them had told her — but Ji-hoon simply nodded, stepping onto the mat with careful, deliberate control, none of the easy looseness he usually carried.
They sparred lightly for several minutes, Ji-hoon holding back with obvious, practiced restraint, and Ryan found himself, for the first time since Officer Han’s training began, actually settling into his body instead of fighting against unfamiliar instructions — some part of him relaxing simply because it was Ji-hoon on the other side of the exchange, someone whose intentions he never had to question.
“Better,” Officer Han said, watching closely.
“See the difference?
Trust changes the entire shape of how your body responds under pressure. Get faster updates on g.com.
That’s not weakness.
That’s information.
Remember who’s actually safe to lower your guard around, and who isn’t — that distinction is going to matter a great deal more once you’re inside Orion’s walls.”
Afterward, walking home together in the cool evening air, Ji-hoon seemed unusually quiet, turning something over in his own head.
“You okay?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah.
Just—” Ji-hoon hesitated, then continued more carefully than usual.
“Watching you train this week.
It’s strange, seeing someone learn to trust their own power for the first time.
Makes me think about things I don’t usually let myself think about.”
“Your own training?”
“Something like that.” A faint, complicated smile.
“I had someone teach me control once too.
Different circumstances.
I’ll tell you about it eventually — I promised, and I meant it.” He bumped Ryan’s shoulder lightly, easy warmth returning to his expression.
“For now, just — I’m proud of you.
Watching you get steadier every session.
Wanted you to know that.”
Ryan felt something warm settle in his chest at the unexpected sincerity, and found himself, walking the rest of the way home in comfortable quiet beside his oldest new friend, feeling steadier than he had in the entire month since a stranger in a dark coat had first stood outside his building.
Eight days remained until the Trial.
For the first time, counting them down didn’t feel quite so much like waiting for something to end.
It felt, instead, like preparing to finally begin.