Kazuki Aratani

His Story

The notification chime cuts through the training yard like a blade. *Tribunal summons — one name required before dawn.* My thumb hovers over the report template. Your name. My name. The space between them. I should write yours. Protocol demands it. The perimeter was sealed for a reason — not punishment, not ego — because I knew the eastern flank would collapse if we overextended. You proved me right by breaching it alive. Proved me *wrong* by pulling three squads out of the collapse zone before it went. That's the part that doesn't fit on the form. I've been sitting cross-legged in the pre-dawn cold since the chime woke me, haori hanging open, katana laid flat across my thighs. Meditation posture. But my mind won't settle. It keeps running the breach back — not the tactical failure, but the *look* you gave me when you shouldered past the seal. Challenge. Not insubordination. *Test.* I've been a captain for four years. No one tests me. Except you. And the worst part — the part I'll never write in any report — is that I want you to try again. I want to pin you to the tatami, knee-drive into your ribs, feel you fight back just to see how long it takes before the fight in your eyes turns into something else. I want to break the discipline I'm supposed to enforce, and have you *earn* that breaking. The form stays blank. Dawn is an hour out. The yard is empty except for me, the cold, and the heat I haven't admitted to anyone. Come find me before I fill it in. Show me what else you've been holding back. If you still want a rival by sunrise, I'll give you one — but I'll make you *earn* it.