## Chapter 273 — Somewhere Boring

By Tuesday evening, the bruise across Isha’s right thigh had faded to a yellow-green shadow, while the marks on her knuckles remained dark enough for Shibata to notice from the reception desk.

The gym occupied the same second-floor room above the bicycle-parts shop. Rain had left the stairwell damp and brought the smell of wet pavement inside each time the outer door opened. Heavy bags hung still along one wall. On the mat, Arai was helping a new trial student wrap his hands after he had managed to cover his thumb twice and his wrist not at all.

Shibata looked from Isha’s hand to the way she removed her jacket.

“What affects training?”

He asked it as he would have asked about a strained ankle or a cut beneath a glove. Isha set her bag against the wall and answered in the same terms.

“My ribs are sore under hard twisting. The hand is usable, though direct pressure on the knuckles still hurts. The thigh is bruised and stable.”

“What happened?”

“Two men attacked Thomas and me while we were abroad. Police attended. There was no weapon and no continuing matter.”

Shibata’s gaze remained on her face for a moment, then moved to the marks she had listed. He asked whether a doctor had restricted her activity. When she said no, he gave her technical work only: no hard sparring, no heavy body shots and no partner expected to carry her through a throw if the ribs changed her movement.

“Tell the person you work with,” he said. “Not the whole class.”

That was all he required.

Isha changed into the black rashguard and fitted shorts she used for mixed training. The fabric revealed the bruise near her ribs when she raised both arms to secure her braids, then covered it again when she lowered them. Her hair had returned to its usual smoothness after several showers, though Thomas’s excessive Cleanse finish survived at the ends in a pale gloss that made the braids harder to tighten.

Arai found her during the warm-up.

“You look as if someone objected to the holiday.”

Her tone was curious, not light. She had already seen Shibata speak to Isha and waited until the class was moving through shoulder rotations rather than gathering an audience beside the desk.

“Two men followed us from a bar and attacked Thomas,” Isha said. “I stopped them. The police dealt with the rest.”

Arai’s eyes went to the bruised knuckles. “Did you punch them?”

“One body strike used this hand. Most of the damage came from the ground and from being thrown onto it.”

The timer sounded before Arai could decide whether that answer improved anything. They joined the line for lateral steps, sprawls and technical stands. Isha’s ribs objected during the first deep sprawl. She adjusted the angle and continued at the pace Shibata had set.

The class began with pad work.

Arai held the focus mitts and gave Isha a simple sequence: jab, cross, low kick, reset. Isha’s hands moved cleanly until the right cross reached full extension. The pull across her ribs arrived late enough that the punch still landed and early enough that she did not repeat it.

Arai lowered the mitt. “Shorter cross?”

“Yes.”

They changed the combination to jab, left hook and outside low kick. Isha could rotate through the hook if she kept the range compact. The kick struck Arai’s thigh pad with less force than usual and more accuracy than during her first week. Around them, gloves met leather in uneven rhythms. Shibata corrected one student’s stance, moved a taller pair farther from the wall and left Isha’s reduced power alone.

Her bruises gave clear information. The room was harder to read correctly.

Each time someone approached from behind, Isha knew before contact whether the steps belonged to a coach, a partner or a person crossing to another station. She had always known such things. Tonight her body prepared an answer before the information became useful.

A glove brushed her shoulder while a pair changed places behind her. Her weight dropped.

Arai felt the movement through the pad straps. She made no remark, though her next cue arrived a little more clearly.

They finished three rounds and changed to clinch work.

Shibata demonstrated against the padded wall. The attacker began behind the defender with hands linked around the waist. The defender was to protect the grip, lower the hips, turn towards one side and build an underhook before reversing position. No throw was required. The drill ended when the defender faced the partner or moved away from the wall.

He demonstrated once at normal speed, then again slowly enough to show the hands.

“Do not attack fingers. Peel at the grip, not one joint. Your partner is giving you pressure, not trying to drag you into traffic.”

The final comparison reached Isha without special emphasis. Shibata had used the same line in earlier wall work, before Da Nang.

Arai came to stand beside her. “You want someone else?”

“No.”

They moved to the section of padded wall nearest the mirrors. Arai took the first defensive turn. Isha linked her hands around Arai’s waist and applied steady pressure through shoulder and chest. Arai lowered her hips, fought the grip and turned towards the opening Isha allowed. Her underhook arrived late. Isha followed her off the wall and returned her gently to the starting position.

On the second attempt, Arai separated the hands sooner and reversed them.

They changed roles.

Isha faced the wall with her hands raised loosely before her. Arai stepped close behind, fitted her arms around Isha’s waist and linked her hands just above the navel.

Arai’s cheek stayed clear of Isha’s shoulder. Her feet were set wide enough to follow resistance. The clasp rested over fabric instead of skin.

Isha felt the lane.

The padding in front of her became rough concrete. Thomas stood two steps away with one hand reaching for the phone he had dropped into sand. Another man was rising behind her. The arms around her were larger, higher and pulling instead of holding.

Her left hand trapped Arai’s top wrist.

She stepped outside the right foot, drove her hip back and turned. Her right forearm rose beneath Arai’s elbow. The joined movement tightened the wrist, opened the elbow and placed Arai’s knee behind Isha’s heel. One more drop of weight would take the leg while the arm remained fixed. Arai’s head would have no safe direction beside the wall.

Isha stopped.

The position held for less than a second. Arai’s breath changed against her shoulder. She had not tapped, but she had felt the structure close.

Isha released the wrist and stepped forward.

Arai lowered both hands. “That wasn’t what he showed.”

“No.”

Shibata had seen the turn from several metres away. He approached without calling the rest of the class to stop.

“Anything hurt?” he asked Arai.

“My wrist felt the beginning. Nothing now.”

Arai rotated the hand and flexed her fingers. Shibata watched the movement, then looked at Isha.

“What were you finishing?”

“A wrist and elbow lock with the leg removed. She would have fallen beside the wall.”

The description altered Arai’s expression more than the contact had. Shibata considered the position, then pointed towards the open mat.

“Move away from the wall. Arai decides whether she takes the grip again.”

He returned to the other pairs.

Isha walked with Arai to the centre of the mat. The floor felt wider there. Arai rubbed her wrist once, testing memory more than pain.

“You stopped early,” she said. “I felt where it was going, but you stopped. You also didn’t pretend it belonged to the drill after I noticed.”

Isha looked towards Shibata, who was correcting another pair’s hand position. “Will you take the same grip at normal pressure?”

Arai moved behind her. She did not close her hands immediately. The hesitation irritated Isha because it belonged to something she had caused. She waited until Arai made the choice and felt the forearms settle around her waist.

The first answer returned.

Isha left it unused.

She covered the clasp with both hands, lowered her hips and widened her stance. Arai’s pressure came forward. Isha peeled space at the joined hands, turned towards Arai’s right side and fought for the underhook. Arai followed, denying the turn for two steps before Isha found the angle and reversed them.

They reached the end position with Arai’s back towards the open room and Isha facing her.

Arai reset immediately. “Again.”

The next attempt failed. Isha tried to turn too soon, and Arai followed her hip, kept the grip and returned her to the starting line. On the third, Isha broke the clasp but lost the underhook. On the fourth, she completed the escape with less force and no pause.

The drill became repetitive enough for other sounds to return: the timer, bare feet crossing the mat, a glove striking a heavy bag in the next room. Isha’s breathing deepened. The old answer remained available, but it stopped occupying the whole position.

Shibata changed the class to short positional rounds. Partners began from the same rear body lock, with the defender trying to turn free and the attacker trying to maintain control or bring the action safely to the mat. Isha and Arai stayed together.

Arai took Isha’s back twice. The first time Isha escaped. The second, she protected the wrong hand and allowed Arai to climb her grip higher across the ribs. Pain narrowed Isha’s breath. She tapped Arai’s forearm before the pressure became an injury.

Arai released at once and stepped away.

They reset after Isha confirmed the ribs were only sore. In the final exchange, Arai used Isha’s caution to pull her off balance and took her down onto one hip. Isha recovered guard, but the timer sounded before she could work farther.

Both were sweating. Arai offered her hand and pulled Isha up.

Shibata ended Isha’s training before the final live rounds. He sent her to cool down and told her to reassess the ribs the next morning. His attention had already moved to a younger man whose mouthguard remained in his bag during a drill that required it.

Isha sat against the wall and watched Arai begin a light round with Mizuno. Her hands trembled once while she untied the end of one braid. The movement passed before she finished.

A message from Thomas waited on her phone.

**Reservation at seven. Somewhere boring. Come home first.**

Isha read it twice, then answered:

**Did you verify the customers remain seated?**

His reply took less than a minute.

**Chairs are a central part of the business model.**

She put the phone away before the exchange grew into evidence that he had chosen badly.

---

Thomas had selected a small Italian restaurant four streets beyond the river.

It occupied the ground floor of a residential building and had twelve tables, no standing bar and a handwritten notice asking customers to fold wet umbrellas before entering. The photographs on its booking page showed pasta, grilled fish and desserts assembled with competence rather than ambition. Reviews complained mainly about the difficulty of parking and one winter evening when the dining room had been too warm.

He had reserved a table against the inner wall.

By six thirty his shoulder could reach the second shelf in the kitchen, though Nakamura’s conditions still kept him off the mat. The bruise had turned yellow around the collarbone and faded to purple near the upper arm. He could put on a jacket without help if he moved slowly.

Isha returned from the gym carrying damp air with her. She kissed him in the genkan, placed his left hand against her waist and rested her forehead briefly against his.

“How was it?”

“I will tell you at dinner.”

Thomas felt the tension held along her back. He took her wet jacket while she removed her shoes and followed her inside.

She showered, rebraided her hair more loosely and opened the wardrobe.

The repaired black dress hung between the plum dress and a dark jacket. Kanno’s work had almost erased the stretched seam. The pale mark near the hem remained.

Isha put it on without ceremony.

Thomas waited in the bedroom doorway while she fastened the side closure and drew her hair free from the neckline. The fabric settled along her body, close through the waist and hips before falling in a long clean line towards her calves. The sleeveless cut showed the last faint colour near her ribs. Her shoulders looked strong above it. Repair had done nothing to reduce the dress’s effect on him.

Isha caught his attention before he attempted speech.

“The seam?”

“Still difficult to see, although that is no longer the question I am considering.”

She crossed the room and adjusted the collar of his shirt. She had chosen low black shoes instead of the repaired sandals from Da Nang. When she finished with the collar, she left her hands against his chest.

Thomas kissed her. The first contact was brief because the restaurant had a reservation time. The second delayed them by another minute and left Isha’s lipstick slightly softened at one corner.

She repaired it in the mirror while Thomas found his coat.

The restaurant was busy when they arrived. A family with two school-age children occupied the table nearest the window. Three women in office clothes shared a bottle of wine under the framed menu from the restaurant’s opening year. An older couple sat in silence broken comfortably by the arrival of bread. No one stood near the entrance except the server checking reservations.

Their table offered a view of the room and part of the street through the front glass. Thomas took the chair with the wall behind him before realising he had chosen the position Isha usually preferred. She noticed as she sat opposite.

“I can see the entrance from here,” he said.

“So can I.”

The tables were angled enough that neither needed to change. Isha placed her small bag beside her chair. She looked once towards the kitchen door and returned to the menu.

The server brought water and explained that the sea bream had sold out. Thomas chose chicken with lemon and herbs. Isha ordered pasta with aubergine and tomato after confirming that the chilli level was mild. They shared a salad because the set menu required no further strategy.

A man at the next table looked towards Isha while his partner was choosing wine. His attention stayed for a second too long, drawn by her height, pale hair and the black dress. Isha met his eyes.

The man looked away. His partner asked him a question about the wine list, and he bent over the page to answer.

Isha unfolded her napkin across her lap. The movement loosened something in her shoulders.

The salad arrived first, followed by bread warm enough to soften the butter. Thomas ate without examining the balance of vinegar or explaining how he would have cut the tomatoes. The restaurant had not asked for his judgement.

Isha waited until the main dishes had arrived before speaking about the gym.

“The first answer came before the drill,” she said. “Arai held me from behind against the wall. I had her wrist and elbow, and my heel was behind her knee before I recognised what I was doing.”

Thomas’s fork stopped above the chicken.

“Did she get hurt?”

“No. She felt the lock begin. I stopped before it closed.”

The restaurant continued around them. One of the children near the window dropped a fork, and his father retrieved it before the server had to. Pans sounded from the kitchen. Thomas set his fork down and gave Isha the time to continue.

“Shibata moved us away from the wall and let Arai decide whether to repeat it. She did.” Isha turned pasta through the sauce without lifting it. “I asked her to take the grip again at normal pressure.”

“And the second time?”

“I used the escape we were practising. The third time she kept my back. Later I tapped because her grip crossed the bruised ribs.”

Thomas’s shoulders lowered. He had not realised they had tightened.

Isha tasted the pasta. The aubergine had collapsed into the tomato, leaving the skin intact around the softer centre. She ate another mouthful before adding, “I did not feel ashamed of the answer. I disliked finding it in the wrong room.”

Thomas considered several responses and rejected the ones that made the evening into an assessment.

“What did Arai say afterwards?”

“That I stopped early and told the truth about what I had started. Then she took me down before the final timer.”

Thomas smiled and returned to his meal.

They spoke about the rest of the class: the trial student who wrapped his thumb inside the hand wrap, Arai’s attempt to correct him without laughing and Shibata’s refusal to let Isha join the final rounds. Thomas described Mori’s continued shelf restrictions and Elif Kaya’s message confirming that her suitcase had arrived at six twelve, after the orientation session but before residence security stopped accepting baggage.

They finished the main dishes. Dessert offered panna cotta, tiramisu or a small plate of citrus sorbet. Isha chose tiramisu. Thomas ordered coffee and discovered that the restaurant’s idea of a small dessert involved two forks appearing automatically.

Isha drew the plate closer to herself.

The second fork reached it before she could establish jurisdiction. The tiramisu was soft, cold and more bitter than sweet. Isha watched Thomas take the first piece, then rotated the plate so the cocoa-heavy side faced her.

At the next table, the man who had looked earlier stood to help his partner into her coat. He did not look towards Isha again. The family by the window left behind one paper napkin folded into a boat. The older couple ordered another coffee.

When the server collected their empty glasses, Isha remained turned towards Thomas. She had stopped following movement between the entrance and their table.

Thomas paid. The server returned Isha’s umbrella from the stand and warned that the river path might still be wet.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The air held the cool smell of concrete, leaves and water. Streetlights caught droplets along parked bicycles. Instead of turning directly towards flat 202, Thomas led them to the narrow river two streets over.

The water ran higher than it had before the holiday. Rain had darkened the retaining walls and pressed long grass downstream along the lower edge. Hydrangeas leaned over the path from small gardens and planted strips, their blue and violet heads heavy with water.

Isha gathered the side of her skirt slightly where the pavement narrowed. The dress moved easily around her steps. Kanno’s repaired seam remained flat.

Thomas offered his right arm.

She looked at the shoulder before taking it. Her hand settled above his elbow, light at first. When his stride remained unchanged, she leaned closer until their arms rested together.

They passed a bench slick with rain, two university students sharing an umbrella despite the dry sky and an older man walking a small white dog in a transparent coat. The dog stopped beneath a hydrangea and refused the direction its owner had selected. Negotiations continued behind them.

For the first part of the walk, Isha noticed every person approaching.

A man in running clothes came from ahead, breathing hard and watching the wet ground. She moved closer to the outer edge before he reached them. Three young men laughed near a vending machine across the river; her gaze found the bridge between them and the path, then returned to Thomas. None of the movements interrupted her steps.

“The restaurant was acceptable, though dessert created conflict,” she said.

Thomas glanced at the black dress beside him. “You placed it in the centre of the table.”

“That is where shared food goes. It does not establish equal division.”

The exchange ended when Thomas’s shoe found a shallow puddle disguised by the reflection of a streetlight. Water reached the edge of his trouser leg. Isha looked down, then towards him with the satisfaction of someone who had predicted a footwear problem on a different continent and found the principle still active.

He declined to defend the shoes.

They continued beneath cherry trees carrying summer leaves. The river made more sound near one of the low drops built into the channel. Insects moved over the water in brief touches, visible only when they crossed the light.

Thomas felt Isha’s hand become heavier on his arm.

“I did not know whether asking Arai to repeat the grip was sensible,” she said. “Part of me wanted to prove that the first response had not taken the choice away. That is close to turning another person into evidence.”

“Did you tell her why you wanted it repeated?”

“I told her I wanted the same grip at normal pressure. She already knew what had happened. She chose to do it.”

Thomas looked at the wet path ahead. “Then perhaps you do not need to decide which part of you asked.”

Isha was quiet for several steps. “That answer would annoy me if it came from Shibata.”

“It is fortunate that I have no coaching authority.”

She tightened her arm through his in acknowledgement.

A bicycle bell sounded behind them.

Isha moved towards Thomas, drawing the black skirt clear of the centre of the path. She did not turn. The cyclist passed on their left with a child asleep in the rear seat beneath a rain cover and called thanks as he went by.

Only after the bicycle had moved ahead did Isha look towards it. The child’s head rested against one side of the seat, mouth open, undisturbed by the uneven path.

Isha returned her hand to Thomas’s arm.

“Does the restaurant take Friday bookings?”

“Usually.”

“Book the same table.”

They walked on while water continued through the channel beside them.