The simulation ring on Sublevel 2 was mostly abandoned at this hour. The pre-shift lull, when no one wanted to sweat before breakfast.
Hernan preferred it that way.
He stood at the center of the ring in his combat basewear—tight, breathable, silver-black, nothing to snag on impact. His breath came short and sharp, each exhale syncing with a strike as he launched into another repetition.
The training drones swarmed in threes, hardlight shields shimmering in irregular bursts. He rotated fast—low pivot, elbow to jawline, then a roundhouse through the lead drone's chest. Its projector sparked and cut out.
Another sweep. Another kill.
Not efficient enough.
Hernan reset the program. Upped the aggression tier. This time, they didn't just react—they anticipated. He welcomed it. Needed it.
His strikes got faster. Sloppier. Power building where precision usually lived. The third drone clipped him mid-twist, catching the back of his ribs.
