The gym smelled faintly of ionized air and disinfectant, a mix of steel and sweat that belonged to no century in particular. It was the same on every ship Harel had served—just enough familiarity to be grounding, just enough difference to remind him he was somewhere new.

He stood before one of the weighted training dummies, stripped down to a sleeveless undershirt and dark exercise trousers. His breath came even, measured, the steady cadence of a man who believed warm-up was not a formality but ritual.

Harel pivoted lightly on the balls of his feet, driving a controlled combination of strikes into the padded torso: elbow, palm, knee. The impacts were solid, precise, not fueled by anger or adrenaline, but discipline. A rhythm, more than a fight.

He paused, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his stance. The style was still new to him—an adaptation of Kung Fu he’d been practicing since his recovery leave. Its focus on balance, anticipation, and controlled contact suited him: less about domination, more about learning how to stay upright in a storm.

The steam from his earlier workout still clung faintly to his skin, but he felt the knots in his muscles loosening with every strike, every breath.

He reset his footing, eyes narrowing on the dummy as if it might move back.

The gym wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t crowded either. The kind of space where someone could step in—or not.

Harel drew back, exhaled through his nose, and muttered just loud enough to carry:

“Who wants to spar?”

Lt. Commander Harel ○●●
Chief of Operations
U.S.S. Saracen