And that's how I found myself standing at Sevika's door the next day, heart pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it before I even knocked. The workshop reeked of oil and burnt metal, and the faint whirr of machinery buzzed in the background. I steeled myself, determined not to back out now.

"Sevika! I need you to help me please! I want to learn to fight." I yelled as i knocked hard on her door.

The door creaked open, and there she was, looming like a wall of muscle and skepticism. "You want me to teach you how to fight?" Sevika asked, one brow arching as she leaned casually against the frame. Her tone oozed amusement, but there was a hint of disbelief behind the smirk tugging at her lips.

"Yes," I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. My fists clenched at my sides, and I tried to straighten up, even though my nine-year-old self barely reached her shoulder.

Sevika tilted her head, her sharp gaze boring into me like she was trying to see if I'd crack under the pressure. "You're serious?"

I nodded. "Dead serious."

Her smirk widened into a full-blown grin as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Alright, kid. But don't come crying to me when it gets hard."

"I won't," I shot back, though the pit in my stomach suggested otherwise.

She chuckled darkly and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "Hope you've got thick skin, kid. You're gonna need it."

The first lesson was… well, a complete disaster.

"Like this," Sevika said, her voice even but firm as she threw a punch into the air. Her arm moved like a coiled spring, every motion deliberate and precise. The muscles rippled under her skin, a perfect demonstration of controlled power. "Thumb outside the fist," she added, her eyes flicking to me. "Unless you like breaking bones. Got it?"

"Got it," I said quickly, mimicking her stance. Or at least, trying to. My arms felt too short, my hands too awkward, and I was pretty sure my feet weren't supposed to be tangled like that.

"Alright, show me what you've got," she said, stepping back with an air of amused anticipation.

I swung my fist with all the enthusiasm of someone who thought they were about to look cool—and promptly yelped as pain shot through my thumb. "Ow!" I recoiled, cradling my hand as tears stung my eyes. "What the—"

Sevika burst out laughing, her deep, rough voice echoing like a challenge. "Rule number one," she said between laughs, "don't break your thumb, genius." She shook her head, still grinning as she crossed her arms. "Want to guess rule number two?"

I glared at her, my cheeks burning hotter than my throbbing thumb. "Don't laugh at the kid you're supposed to be teaching?"

Her smirk didn't falter for a second. "Wrong. Rule number two: no whining. Got that, or do you need me to write it down?"

I muttered something unintelligible under my breath, which only seemed to amuse her more.

"What was that?" she asked, leaning down just enough to loom over me. "Speak up, kid."

"Nothing," I grumbled, straightening my stance. "Let's just… do it again."

"That's the spirit," she said with mock encouragement, clapping her metal hand against her flesh one. The sound was loud enough to make me flinch.

Over the next hour, I learned two things.

First: throwing a proper punch is way harder than it looks.
Second: Sevika does not believe in breaks.

"Again," she barked, pacing behind me like a drill sergeant. "Your stance is garbage. Fix it."

I adjusted my footing, muttering under my breath. "Stupid… stance… feels like I'm standing in a hole."

"What was that?" Sevika's sharp tone cut through my grumbling.

"Nothing," I snapped, straightening.

"Good. Now punch."

I swung again, this time managing not to break anything. But the punch still felt weak, like a feather brushing the air.

"Pathetic," Sevika said bluntly. "You're not swatting flies, kid. Put your weight into it."

"I am putting my weight into it!" I growled, frustration bubbling over.

"No, you're flailing like a fish," she shot back, circling around me. "You wanna hit something, you've gotta focus. You think your anger's enough? It's not. Control it, or it'll control you."

Her words hit harder than any punch. I bit down on the retort building in my throat, letting the anger simmer instead of boil over.

"Again," she said, her voice cutting through the haze of my emotions.

I swung again, this time focusing on the movement rather than my frustration. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but Sevika's smirk softened just a fraction.

"Better," she said, nodding. "Still terrible, but better."

By the end of the lesson, my arms felt like lead, my knuckles were raw, and my pride had taken a beating to rival my thumb. But as I stood there, panting and glaring up at Sevika, I realized something.

She was still grinning.

And, despite myself, so was I.

The lessons didn't get any easier. Sevika drilled me relentlessly, her voice sharp and to the point, cutting through any complaints I dared to mutter. She taught me how to dodge, how to plant my feet properly, and how to spot openings in an opponent's stance. It all sounded simple when she explained it—like following a recipe. But when I tried to execute her instructions, it was like trying to juggle knives while blindfolded.

One day, after my fourth spectacular failure to stay on my feet during a dodge drill, I groaned from the ground, clutching my elbow. "Sevika, I'm nine! Nine!" I threw my arms up for emphasis. "Aren't there child labor laws or something?"

She stood over me like a mountain, arms crossed and completely unimpressed. "And the world doesn't care. You think it's gonna go easy on you because you're a kid?" She jerked her head toward the ground. "Get up. Again."

I rolled onto my knees, grumbling loud enough for her to hear. "I think the world could stand to care a little more."

She snorted, the sound more bark than laugh. "Good luck convincing it. Now move your feet. You're slower than molasses in winter."

I dragged myself upright, muttering under my breath. "Maybe if the molasses wasn't being yelled at, it'd move faster."

"What was that?" she snapped, though there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"Nothing," I said quickly, adjusting my stance.

She leaned in close, her gaze piercing. "Good. Now stop flapping your jaw and focus."

As frustrating as it was, I started to notice small improvements—or at least, I was spending less time face-first on the ground. Sevika never sugarcoated things, but there was something about her that wasn't as harsh as it seemed. She'd correct my form with a sharp tap on the shoulder or a muttered "too wide," and occasionally, if I managed to do something halfway decent, she'd give a small nod that felt like winning a medal.

One day, after I finally dodged one of her mock punches without tripping over my own feet, she pulled back, studying me with a critical eye. "You're still terrible," she said flatly, crossing her arms.

I wiped sweat off my brow, glaring at her. "Gee, thanks for the encouragement."

"Don't get cocky, kid," she said, but there was a flicker of approval in her smirk. "Terrible's better than what you were before."

"And what was that?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think. "Hopeless. Like a baby bird trying to fight a hawk."

I groaned, pressing my hands to my face. "You're the worst."

"And you're the whiniest," she shot back, tossing me a towel. "Wipe that sweat before it blinds you, crybaby."

It wasn't just fighting Sevika taught me. Between drills, she talked about Zaun—its history, its people, the way it ground down the weak and lifted up the clever.

"This place doesn't just test you," she said one evening as we sat on overturned crates, catching our breath. Her arms rested on her knees, her posture deceptively relaxed. "It chews you up and spits you out if you're not paying attention."

I flexed my sore fingers, watching her carefully. Her tone was different—serious, almost... reflective. "So why stay?" I asked, my voice quieter than usual.

She glanced at me, her sharp gaze softening just slightly. "Because it's home. You just have to learn how to survive it." She gestured at the smog-drenched skyline, her expression unreadable. "It doesn't matter how tough it gets. You figure out how to make it work, or it breaks you."

I looked down at my scuffed knuckles. "Doesn't seem fair," I said after a moment.

Sevika chuckled, low and bitter. "It's not. But fair's not gonna keep you alive."

Her words lingered, heavy in the air between us. As brutal as Zaun could be, there was a resilience in its people that couldn't be ignored.

And if Vi thought I couldn't handle myself here, I was determined to prove her wrong.

The next day, Sevika had me sparring with a literal sack of sand. "It doesn't hit back," she said, smirking as she dropped the weighty thing in front of me with a loud thud. "Figured I'd give you a break."

I scowled, kicking the bag. "This is your idea of a break?"

"It's softer than my fists," she replied, cracking her knuckles. "Now, hit it. Hard."

I swung at the bag, my fist connecting with a dull thud.

Sevika sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Are you petting it? Hit it like it owes you money."

I gritted my teeth, swung again, and nearly toppled over.

She caught me by the back of my shirt, steadying me with ease. "You've got anger, kid, but no control. Use that anger. Let it fuel you, but don't let it make you stupid."

I stared up at her, panting. "How do you even do that?"

She smirked, crouching so we were eye-level. "You practice until it's second nature. And then you practice some more." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a low growl. "And you never, ever give up."

That night, lying in bed with every muscle in my body aching, I thought about her words. For the first time, I felt a spark of something unfamiliar—hope. If Sevika believed I could make it, maybe I actually could.