Jean tried to jump sideways, hoping to create a gap between them. But it didn't go as planned — she caught up like a predator after its prey, not letting him out of her sight.
SWISH!
Her other hand latched onto his arm, pulling him toward her — a flurry of fists to the face in an instant.
BANG ×???
Like a rag doll, she flung him ten meters away.
BANG!
Hiss~
Jean landed heavily on the ground, his mind ravaged by pain. But he didn't dwell on it for long. He bounced back to his feet, eyes locked on Mira.
The sound of silence was loudest just before the first move.
Jean exhaled slowly. Fists loose at his sides. Bare feet spread shoulder-width across the ground. His pajamas clung to his back, sweat already forming from both anticipation and trepidation.
Across from him stood Mira — or rather, something wearing her shape. The dummy stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on him like a hawk watching a mouse.
She moved first.
No warning. No posture change.
WHOOSH.
A flicker of motion. Jean instinctively dropped low, barely dodging a clawed swipe that sliced through the air with surgical precision. She twisted mid-air, heel whipping toward his temple.
THWACK!
It connected. Lights sparked behind his eyes. He hit the ground and rolled.
"Faster," he muttered, pushing off the ground just as her next strike landed where his head had been.
He jumped back, breath ragged. She wasn't just fast — she was clean. Every step flowed into the next. Each move measured, rehearsed, perfected. Her hands carved through the air like swords, fingers rigid and sharpened like bone blades. She fought with control that bordered on artistry.
And Jean? He fought like a brawler handed a black belt in desperation.
He darted forward, letting instinct lead — a forward feint, then a side-step elbow. He shifted his weight into a low kick — one of the first moves drilled into him during his years of training. She blocked the elbow, leapt over the kick, and countered with a palm strike to his chest.
WHAM.
Jean's feet left the ground. He skidded several meters before catching himself.
He barely had time to breathe before something else hit him — not her fist this time, but something colder. Slipperier.
A flash.
For a moment, he wasn't in the dome.
He was back in his room. Rachel screaming. Blood on his hands. His mother's voice calling his name — shaking, terrified.
Then it was gone.
He staggered.
"Didn't expect that, did you?" Mira's dummy said softly. Her voice had changed — no longer hers, but someone else's.
His ex. The one who left him when he had nothing. When he was broken.
Jean's head throbbed.
Illusions. Mind tricks.
She circled him slowly, claws twitching. "Your body's fast. Strong. But minds like yours are soft."
He tried to focus, raising his hands again.
"Still playing the tough guy," she whispered, now behind him. "Let's see what happens when I turn the lights off."
The room darkened — not really, but it felt like it.
The dome flickered. His senses dulled.
Suddenly, he wasn't alone in his head.
Memories twisted into something foreign. His father's face — warped. A graveyard. The cold laughter of someone he once trusted.
He blinked hard, stepped forward, tried to punch through it.
SWISH!
But struck only air.
Something hit his stomach.
THUMP!
He doubled over.
*Focus* he told himself. Anchor yourself.
He dropped to a knee and touched the ground. Solid. Real. The scent of sweat, dust, and blood — real.
"I'm not a puppet," he growled, forcing the haze away.
She came at him again, trying to push deeper. Another illusion wrapped around her body, trying to make her vanish entirely.
Then it clicked — the reason for the breathing exercises — to control his body and keep a clear mind.
Jean closed his eyes.
Focused on his breathing.
But Mira's dummy seemed to know what he was planning — she resumed her attacks, targeting both his mind and body, trying to disrupt his concentration.
Still, he didn't give in.
Then he began to see — and hear — not with his eyes and ears, but something else. It felt alien... yet familiar. A conflicting sensation.
He heard the brush of cloth, the shift in the air. Reacted.
He twisted, caught her wrist mid-strike.
GRIP!
And slammed his elbow down on her forearm.
CRACK!
She yelped. The illusion shattered instantly.
Jean's eyes opened. Back to reality.
"Found you," he muttered.
She didn't speak this time. Just attacked — faster. Less patient. Jean could feel the shift.
She was losing composure.
But he wasn't. He'd never been more in control.
They collided again — punch, block, kick, counter, slam. Mira's clone was still cleaner, more precise — but Jean was starting to adapt. His movements blended styles: Jujitsu, Karate, Kung Fu, Taekwondo.
Her palm hit his jaw.
CRACK!
But he held on.
His knee struck her thigh.
WHAM!
And she buckled slightly.
She flipped backward, breathing hard now.
"You're… persistent."
Jean spat blood onto the ground and shrugged. "You mess with my head, I mess with your rhythm."
He could see it now — her pattern. Mira's dummy moved like music. Beautiful, but predictable. He didn't need to match her elegance. He only needed to step outside the beat.
When she lunged again, he didn't dodge or block.
He stepped into her space, threw his shoulder into her torso, and tackled her to the ground.
SLAM!
She twisted, aiming claws at his throat.
SWIPE!
He trapped her wrist against the ground and twisted into a lock.
She kicked out — but he caught her ankle and rolled.
Now they were wrestling — raw, grounded, animalistic. No room for illusions. No distance for mind games. Just two bodies fighting for dominance.
She struggled underneath him, hissing, trying to reach his mind again — but he kept her pinned, heavy breath against her neck.
"I'm ending this now." he growled.
She didn't answer.
Her strength gave out first.
He felt her stop resisting. Muscles sagging.
Chest rising and falling against his.
The fight was over.
Jean rolled off, laying flat on the mat, heart pounding.
The dummy's body shimmered faintly — her form beginning to dissipate as the simulation shut down.
But for a moment, before she vanished, Mira's real voice whispered in his ear — soft and thoughtful.
"…You're not just strong. You're stubborn. That's worse."
Then she was gone.
Jean lay there, arms out, breathing hard.
"Yeah," he muttered to no one, "But stubborn's what wins."