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I proved him wrong by sweeping his legs, nearly taking him down. He recovered with inhuman grace, rolling away from my follow-up strike. His counter-attack was pure hunter.

We found a rhythm then, like some deadly dance we both somehow knew the steps to. Sean would strike with brutal efficiency, all predator grace and killing intent. I'd redirect, flowing around his attacks like water, turning defense into offense. When I landed a throw that sent him flying, his grin was fierce with approval.

The fight became more intense after that, Sean adapting to my style while I learned to read his patterns. He fought like someone used to ending threats quickly, permanently. Each strike was meant to disable or kill. But there was beauty in his efficiency, just as there was deadly purpose behind my more technical approach.

Our styles shouldn't have meshed, but somehow they did. Like we'd been training together for years instead of minutes. And underneath it all, I felt something else building.

Something that had nothing to do with combat and everything to do with the way he moved, the way he read my body like he'd been studying it all along.

“Krav Maga?” he asked after I countered one of his throws.

“Among others.” I caught his arm, used his weight against him. “You telegraph your left side.”

“Cheeky bastard.” But there was admiration in his voice as he recovered. “Show me that counter again.”

The next hour blurred into shared movement and quiet instruction. Sean's hands were warm when he adjusted my stance, lingering slightly longer than necessary. I returned the favor, showing him how to tighten his defense against faster opponents.

“You're full of surprises,” he said during a water break, both of us breathing hard. “Don't meet many feds who can fight like that.”

“Don't meet many hunters who can either.” I watched a bead of sweat trail down his neck, tried not to think about following it with my fingers. “Most rely too much on weapons.”

“Weapons are reliable. People aren't.” He took a long drink from his water bottle. “Besides, a good knife never lets you down.”

Something in his tone made me look closer. “Speaking from experience?”

He was quiet for a moment, then: “Foster system's good at teaching that lesson. Nobody stays. Nothing's permanent.” The words carried the weight of too many homes, too many closed doors.

The admission hung between us, heavy with unspoken history.

“Parents died when I was eight,” I found myself saying. “Car accident, officially.” My voice caught on the lie I'd been telling for twenty years. “It was my birthday. We'd been at Bella Notte, this Italian place we always went to. Dad let me have a sip of his espresso when Mom wasn't looking.”

Sean's eyes met mine, and I saw understanding there, the kind that only comes from knowing what it's like to have your world torn apart. “But unofficially?”

“Something attacked us on the way home.” The memory rose up, sharp as broken glass, snow falling, streetlights going out one by one, creatures emerging from shadows that shouldn'thave been that deep. “Never knew what exactly they were. Just that they weren't human. That they'd been waiting for us.” I took another drink of water, using the motion to hide the tremor in my hands. “The official report said black ice, loss of control. Easier to believe that than what really happened in that alley.”

“The monsters are always there,” Sean said softly. “Just waiting for someone to see them. Most people are lucky enough to go their whole lives without knowing what's really out there.”

“Remember how they found you? The hunters?”

“Aye. Was causing too much trouble in the system, seeing things others couldn't, or wouldn't.” His smile held no humor. “Declan and Moira took me in when I was seventeen. Trained me, made me into a weapon.” The words carried old pain, old anger. “Wasn't exactly a loving home, but at least they didn't tell me I was crazy when I talked about what lived in the dark.”

“But they gave you purpose.”

“Something like that. Though sometimes I wonder if that was better or worse.” He studied me with that unnerving intensity. “Your grandparents raised you after?”

I nodded, remembering quiet rooms and careful conversations. “They did their best. Couldn't explain what really happened that night, couldn't tell them why I woke up screaming about things with too many teeth.” The memories of those early days still hurt, trying to be normal, trying to forget what I'd seen. “So...”

“So you learned to carry it alone,” he finished. “To smile and nod and pretend you didn't see the shadows move.”

The simple understanding in his voice cracked something open in my chest. Because he knew, knew what it was like to be that kid. The one who learned to keep secrets before learning to drive.

“Want to go another round?” he asked, offering an escape from emotions neither of us was ready to face. “Promise I won't go easy on you this time.”

“You were going easy before?”

His grin was challenge and invitation wrapped in one. “Only one way to find out, Agent.”

We squared off again, but something had shifted between us. Each strike carried more than just physical intention, we were communicating through movement, through shared understanding of what it meant to be shaped by darkness.