The days began to blend together.
Heat in the morning, dust in the air, and the endless rhythm of metal striking metal beneath the bridge. The river ran low, a silver thread winding through the dry earth, its quiet persistence matching their own.
Every dawn, 24 was already awake.
He'd start by checking the perimeter — silent, methodical — then drag two training dummies from the shadows and set them up in the sand. By the time the first light reached the water, Lu would already be standing across from him, blades drawn.
At first, their sessions looked like the ones before — steady, cautious. But 24 was changing the tempo.
Each day, he moved faster. Each strike came a fraction earlier, each block a little heavier. The dust kicked up around them as they trained, covering their clothes, their blades, their lungs.
"Again," he'd say, when she stumbled.
And she would. Every time.
By the end of the first week, Lu could read his movements better — her stance firmer, her strikes sharper. But 24's patience began to thin.
He would circle her slowly, eyes cold and unreadable.
"You're thinking too much," he said one morning after disarming her. The blade clattered into the dirt. "Out here, thinking gets you killed."
She wiped sweat from her brow, breathing hard. "And not thinking gets you cut in half."
"Then find the space between," he said, tossing her sword back.
She caught it awkwardly, exhaled, and charged again.
He didn't hold back this time. His parries came faster — too fast — and each time her guard broke, he stopped just short of cutting through. Not to spare her, but to make her feel how close it was.
By the second week, her arms were shaking from the constant drills. Bruises formed under her sleeves, but she didn't complain. She was keeping up now — barely, but enough to make him stop calling out corrections.
One morning, she blocked three of his strikes in quick succession. The sound echoed off the bridge walls.
She stepped back, panting, and for the first time, 24 lowered his weapon before she did.
"Better," he said.
"You sound almost impressed," she replied through the mask.
"Almost."
Her shoulders rose and fell. "You still haven't shown me your full speed."
"You don't want to see it," he said.
"I didn't say I wanted to fight it."
That made him pause — not because she was wrong, but because she reminded him of something he hadn't seen in years: persistence without hate.
He turned away, gripping his long blade. "We'll go again tomorrow. Rest now."
That night, the air under the bridge was cooler.
Lu sat near the river, watching the faint shimmer of water in the moonlight. Her body ached everywhere, but her movements were steadier now — sharper, more certain.
24 stood a few meters away, running a hand over the edge of his blade. It had taken her time, but she was adapting — not to his speed, but to his rhythm.
She was learning how to survive him.
And for the first time since the world fell apart, he wondered if someone else might actually keep up.