The words were a cold current, plunging through the gala’s warm hum, straight into Kirana’s core. She straightened, her demure expression solidifying into a mask of serene composure. Zidan, whose hand had briefly brushed hers under the table moments before, caught the subtle tension in her shoulders. His gaze flickered towards Sarmawan’s retreating form, then back to her. He saw the shift, the quick hardening of her eyes, a glimpse of the sharp intelligence that belied her public persona. “Ready to leave, *darling*?” she asked, a saccharine lilt in her voice, but her grip on Zidan’s arm was steel. She didn’t wait for an answer, pulling him from the table, offering quick, apologetic smiles to the few lingering guests. The red wine stain on the syndicate thug’s crisp white shirt felt like a badge of honor, a small victory in a war that had just escalated. Inside the sleek, silent car provided by Dewi, the facade crumbled. Kirana ripped out her earpiece, tossing it onto the plush leather seat. “He knows,” she stated, the words clipped. “Or he suspects enough. He’s ordered a hit.” Zidan was already dialing, a low murmur of instructions to his security team about increased patrols around the penthouse. “Did you get anything specific?” His tone was devoid of the usual teasing, replaced by an urgent gravity. “Only ‘a permanent solution.’ And the target is ‘the girl.’ He’s careful.” Kirana leaned her head back, watching the city lights blur outside. The gilded cage of the penthouse awaited them, a place where even the walls had eyes. Hours later, the opulent penthouse felt less like a home and more like a high-stakes arena. Kirana found herself in the private gymnasium, the air conditioning a cool balm against her skin. She had stripped down to a simple tank top and training pants, her hair pulled back in a tight knot. The previous night’s adrenaline still coursed, a restless energy demanding release. She moved through a series of Silat Bayangan forms, her movements fluid, precise, each strike clean, deliberate, and vicious. Her breath became a rhythmic hiss, her focus absolute. “You look like you’re trying to punch a hole through the floor,” Zidan’s voice cut through the air, startling her. He stood framed in the doorway, casual in dark sweats, a towel draped over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes tracking the angle of her guard. Kirana didn’t break her form, a defensive block morphing into a swift counter. “Just working out some frustrations.” “Frustrations, or battle readiness?” he observed, stepping into the room. He walked towards a heavy bag, testing its give with a light tap. “That’s not the clumsy Kiki Mentari the public knows.” She finally stopped, turning to face him, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. “And you’re not the cold, distant choreographer everyone believes.” The words hung between them, thin and sharp. “You knew, didn’t you? That day on the set, you saw it.” Zidan didn’t deny it. He just studied her, his eyes unblinking. “You’re reckless, Kirana. Always have been. What makes you think you can take on something like this alone?” “Because no one else *can*,” she retorted, the old resentment, the feeling of being underestimated, bubbling to the surface. “My family is in this. My brother. This isn’t just some stunt.” “No,” he agreed, his voice softening just a fraction. “It isn’t. But you’re not alone now.” He moved to a clear section of the padded floor, beckoning her with a slight tilt of his head. “Show me. Show me what you’re really fighting for.” The challenge hung in the quiet between them, clear as a dropped glove. Kirana didn’t hesitate. She moved first, a blur of motion, a low crescent kick aimed at his lead leg. Zidan sidestepped with fluid grace, blocking with an arm, the impact a dull thud. His movements were different from hers, more theatrical, honed for camera angles and precision, yet no less effective. He didn’t fight to hurt, but to control, to test. Their spar became a dance of defiance and understanding. Her Silat Bayangan was raw, powerful, fueled by a lifetime of secret training and current fear. His choreography-infused defense was a counterpoint, elegant and strategic. Every block, every parry, every calculated strike was a whisper of their past – the shared childhood training sessions, their old rivalry, and the friction that had never faded. Years of silence pressed between them, thick with sharp history. He moved in close, a rapid succession of feints and blocks, forcing her to react, to shed the actress and become the warrior. She recognized that narrowing focus from childhood drills, before the studio lights and syndicates complicated everything. Kirana feigned a low sweep, then spun into a back-fist that Zidan barely deflected, his arm taking the brunt. The force vibrated hard through his forearms. He used her momentum, twisting, bringing her into a close-quarters lock, her back against his chest. Her lungs seized. For a fraction of a second, the fight evaporated. All that remained was the warmth of his body against hers, the scent of his skin, the ghost of a shared past. Their faces were inches apart when he released her, his gaze intense, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The animosity had melted, replaced by a charged silence, a breath held too long. Zidan pulled away abruptly, disturbed by the intimacy of the moment, the raw vulnerability it exposed. “Don’t let them see your tells,” he said, his voice rough, turning away to grab a water bottle. The shift was immediate, the wall back up. Kirana watched him, her chest heaving, not just from the exertion, but from the sudden, aching emptiness where his presence had been. She nodded, though he wasn’t looking. “I won’t.” Later, in the privacy of her room, the silence was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city. Kirana retrieved the tiny listening device she’d planted on Sarmawan’s associate. Connecting it to her personal, encrypted tablet, she pressed play. Static crackled, then the low murmur of voices. It took a few minutes to filter through the background noise of the gala, the clinking glasses, the snippets of laughter. Finally, the gruff voice of the thug Kirana had soaked in merlot cut through. “...the girl, yes. Boss wants it clean. Public. Looks like an accident.” A pause. “She’s got that red carpet event next week, at the Grand Palais. Perfect opportunity. No one expects anything there.” Kirana’s fingers tightened around the tablet. The Grand Palais. A high-profile charity gala, teeming with media. A perfect stage for a ‘clumsy accident.’ She leaned closer, straining to hear more, but the conversation dissolved into indistinct chatter. A soft knock, then the door creaked open. Zidan stood there, not waiting for permission, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. In his hand, he held a small, intricately carved wooden bird, its wings spread as if in mid-flight. It was a sunbird, its carved cedar plumage polished smooth by thumbing over a decade ago. “I found this in an old box,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze steady on her. “I know who you really are, Kirana. And I know you’re in trouble.”

The Sparring Session