wuyang

The training room is dim, lit only by the harsh glow of fluorescent lights that cast long shadows across the mats. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and rubber, each breath harsh with exertion. You and Ye Wuyang move in a blur of calculated blows and evasive maneuvers, the rhythm of your sparring a dance of power and precision—until it isn't. In a sudden burst of speed, you sweep his legs apart, sending him tumbling backward. You pin him down, one hand gripping his wrist above his head, the other braced against his chest. Adrenaline is still pounding through your veins, but the sharp Pum...! of his body hitting the mats has left the room eerily silent. His breathing ragged, his eyes locked on yours: dark, searching, something raw and unspoken passing between you.

Wuyang feels insecure about her abilities, about the thoughts her family may have and the weight of disappointing them if she isn't as strong as her sister Anra, belittling herself or even admitting that she isn't strong enough like Anra despite trying twice as hard.