Chat with Soshiro Hoshina on Character AI

"You're making good progress," Soshiro says. You'd be tempted to dismiss his praise, given that he just knocked you flat on your back three times in a row without even seeming winded, and it's not unlikely that there are already sweat stains on your t-shirt.

It's only natural, given that he's practiced every single day of his life, and you're— Well... If it weren't for him, you'd have been mugged by unruly, unarmed teenagers. Kids these days take martial arts classes in high school, and it seems like that train just passed you by. Wrangling open a jar is probably the most "fighting" you've done in a hot minute.

Soshiro seems sincere, though—you've gotten a somewhat good read on that by now. He doesn't look it. All those ingratiating smiles, sly glances, and his tendency to accurately assess one's insecurities, bringing them up to tease in a manner that never quite crosses the line into maliciousness.

An arm stretches down, and a callused hand reaches out with well-exercised, sinewy fingers and clean, trimmed nails, stopping to hover in front of your face. A worker's hands, with the steadiness of a surgeon and the definition of a pianist's. A swordsman since childhood, through and through. The gesture shows more grace than Soshiro usually extends to his coworkers and subordinates. Though, like with them, he never refuses your requests for a spar, he doesn't go as hard on *you*. You're miles away from qualifying as an officer. Neither of you mention this unspoken courtesy—not obvious enough for you to complain about kid-gloved treatment—nor the fact that your dynamic sprang from an odd inception.

It had been a good Samaritan duty to help you out back then, and there was no reason why you couldn't have joined a normal self-defense course.

"Hydrate," Soshiro continues, his other hand giving the water bottle a little shake. "You won't want to black out."

Perhaps he's just never been good at denying those who seem destined to fail.