Back in their room, the excitement of their victory still lingered in the air. Ayla and Zara had barely set foot inside when they collapsed onto their beds, muscles aching but spirits high. The evening had settled over the city, the faint hum of distant traffic and occasional laughter from other competitors filling the silence between their words.

Zara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "Not bad for our first round together huh?"

Ayla, sitting cross-legged on her bed, absentmindedly rolling a loose thread between her fingers, gave a small nod. "Yeah... we did well."

Zara's phone buzzed, and she grabbed it lazily, her expression shifting as she read the messages. "Oh, look at this," she said, turning toward Ayla with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Some of the guys from other dojos are going out again. They're heading to a club downtown."

Ayla scoffed, shaking her head. "Pass. I'm exhausted."

Zara groaned dramatically, throwing a pillow at her. "Come on! One night out won't kill you."

Ayla caught the pillow, hugging it to her chest. "I'm not really into clubs."

"That's because you've never gone with me," Zara said with a grin. She sat up, her eyes scanning Ayla thoughtfully. "You know what? I bet you'd actually have fun if you let yourself."

Ayla raised an eyebrow. "Doubtful."

Zara stood, walking over to her suitcase. "Alright, plan B. If you go, I'll let you borrow one of my dresses. And trust me, my wardrobe is far superior to yours."

Ayla narrowed her eyes. "I don't know if I should be insulted or grateful."

"Grateful. Definitely grateful," Zara shot back, pulling out a sleek black dress and holding it up. "This one. It'll look amazing on you."

Ayla hesitated, glancing at the dress. It was short, strapless, and far from anything she would normally wear. "No way," she muttered.

Zara pouted. "Please? You'll look stunning, and it's just for one night. Live a little, Ayla!"

Ayla exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Fine. But if I regret this, it's on you."

"Deal!" Zara grinned triumphantly.

As they got ready together, Zara's energy was infectious. She helped Ayla with her makeup, giving her a bold but elegant look, and styled her hair in loose waves. When Ayla finally looked at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the confident girl staring back. She turned to Zara, who was already dressed in a shimmering red outfit that perfectly matched her fiery personality.

"You know," Ayla admitted, adjusting the dress, "you're not as bad as I thought."

Zara smirked. "I'll take that as the highest compliment."

With one last look in the mirror, the two grabbed their things and headed for the door.

The club was alive with pulsing music and flashing lights, a stark contrast to the structured discipline of the dojo. As soon as Ayla and Zara stepped inside, the energy of the place wrapped around them—laughter, the scent of alcohol, the rhythmic bass vibrating through the floor.

"Now this," Zara said with a grin, grabbing Ayla's hand and leading her toward the dance floor, "is where the real fun begins."

Ayla hesitated for only a moment before letting herself be pulled in. The music was intoxicating, and as they moved to the beat, she found herself loosening up. Zara was right—this wasn't so bad. The two of them danced together, laughing, spinning, losing themselves in the crowd.

At some point, Zara disappeared to get drinks, returning with two glasses of something strong and golden. "Drink," she commanded with a wink.

Ayla took a cautious sip, then another. The burn faded quickly, replaced by a warmth that spread through her chest. The music felt even more electrifying now, and she let herself sink further into the rhythm. The two girls danced together, their movements effortless and wild, drawing the attention of several onlookers.

Then, as Ayla twirled, something—or rather, someone—caught her eye.

In the dimly lit corner of the club, away from the chaos of the dance floor, sat Sensei Wolf. A glass of whiskey rested in his hand, the amber liquid catching the flickering lights. But what sent a chill down Ayla's spine was the way he was watching her—eyes dark, intense, locked onto her every movement.

Her breath hitched. He wasn't just watching. He was studying her, drinking in the way she moved, the way the dress hugged her body, the way she let herself go for once. And though his expression remained unreadable, she recognized the sharp tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly tighter around the glass.

A rush of something—defiance, maybe—coursed through her. If he wanted to stare, fine. But she wouldn't let him think he had any control over her.

Ayla turned abruptly and locked eyes with a guy nearby. He was tall, lean, with a confident smirk that told her he had noticed her long before she had noticed him. Without hesitation, she closed the space between them, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders as they began to move together.

She could feel Wolf's gaze burning into her.

With every sway of her hips, every playful tilt of her head, she knew she was provoking him. She shouldn't have cared—shouldn't have even thought about him—but the thought of rattling his composure thrilled her in a way she hadn't expected. She could almost hear the restraint in his breath, see the tension tightening his muscles.

Wolf brought the glass to his lips, but didn't drink. He wasn't enjoying the whiskey anymore. He was simmering.

The man in front of her leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear as he said something—Ayla barely registered what. Her focus was split between the music, the way her body moved, and the silent battle happening across the room.

Then, suddenly, the thrill was gone.

The heat, the rush, the rebellion—it all flickered out as quickly as it had come. She was tired. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the long day, maybe it was the way Wolf's eyes had a way of peeling back her layers, making her feel seen in a way she didn't want to be.

She pulled away from the guy, offering him a small, apologetic smile before turning to find Zara.

"I'm heading back to the hotel," Ayla said, leaning in so Zara could hear her over the music.

Zara frowned, placing a hand on her arm. "You okay? Want me to come with you?"

Ayla shook her head. "I'm fine. Stay, have fun."

Zara hesitated but eventually nodded. "Text me when you get back, alright?"

Ayla gave her a reassuring smile before weaving through the crowd. As she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her, sobering her just a little.

She exhaled slowly, letting the club's energy fade behind her. But even as she walked away, she could still feel Wolf's eyes on her, still taste the tension that had hung thick between them.

And she wasn't entirely sure why that thrilled her.

_____________

Wolf point of view

Wolf sat in the dim corner of the club, whiskey in hand, observing. He had known about this outing before most of the students even considered sneaking out. They always thought they were subtle. They weren't. It wasn't his concern, really—what they did outside of training was their business.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

The ice in his glass clinked softly as he took a slow sip, the burn of the liquor doing little to settle the fire already smoldering in his chest. His eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and unreadable, until they landed on her.

Ayla.

His jaw tightened, his grip on the glass firming.

She stood under the shifting lights, her dark hair falling in soft waves over bare shoulders, the black dress hugging her in a way that made his throat go dry. That wasn't her dress—he knew that much. Too bold, too revealing. Zara's influence, no doubt.

Ayla moved differently here than she did in the dojo. There, she was controlled, calculated—every movement precise, disciplined. Here, she was fluid, unguarded, her body swaying effortlessly to the rhythm of the music. And she was smiling. A rare, unfiltered smile that he had never quite seen before.

Wolf exhaled slowly, bringing the glass to his lips again, but he barely tasted the whiskey.

He should have looked away.

He didn't.

Instead, he watched as she and Zara danced together, laughing, their bodies moving in sync, completely at ease. It was... disorienting. Seeing her like this. Seeing too much of her.

Then she turned—and her gaze flickered to him.

For a split second, he thought she would look away, maybe even falter.

She didn't.

Something shifted in her expression. A flicker of something... defiant.

And then, she moved.

Wolf's fingers clenched around his glass as Ayla turned toward some guy—some cocky bastard who had probably been waiting for an opening all night—and closed the space between them.

His blood ran hot.

The guy's hands settled easily on her waist, too familiar, too comfortable. And Ayla—Ayla let it happen. She leaned in, her movements slow, deliberate, provocative. She wasn't just dancing.

She was testing him.

Wolf felt his breath come heavier, controlled only by sheer force of will. The warmth of the whiskey did nothing against the heat curling in his gut, the sharp, visceral reaction tightening his muscles.

It wasn't just anger.

It was something darker. Something possessive.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And damn it, it was working.

His nails pressed into his palm as he forced himself to stay seated, to remain unmoved. He could tell himself it didn't matter—pretend that he was unaffected—but his body told a different story. Every instinct in him screamed to move, to pull her away, to remind her—remind him—exactly who she was.

But he couldn't.

Wouldn't.

He had no claim to her. No right to feel this way.

So he sat, and he watched, and he burned.

Then, just as suddenly as she had started, she stopped.

Wolf exhaled, slow and steady, as Ayla pulled away from the guy, her expression shifting. The game was over. She was done playing.

For now.

She scanned the crowd, found Zara, and spoke to her briefly before turning toward the exit.

Wolf's gaze followed her until she disappeared through the doors.

He should have felt relief.

Instead, the fire in his chest only burned hotter.