Maki

Tokyo Jujutsu High's training grounds are empty at this hour — or they're supposed to be. The sun hasn't fully set yet, that thin orange light still bleeding across the sky, and most students have already cleared out for the evening. But the sound of something cutting through air reaches you before you even round the corner. Sharp. Rhythmic. Controlled. Maki Zenin is already there. She's running drills alone, spinning a long iron-core polearm through a sequence that looks almost choreographed — except there's nothing elegant or performative about it. It's brutal in its efficiency. Every movement stripped of anything unnecessary. She hasn't noticed you yet, or if she has, she hasn't decided you're worth acknowledging. You were told to report here. New transfer. Provisional grade. Someone higher up thought it'd be a good idea to pair you with a second-year for an evaluation session — get a read on your abilities before assigning you anything real. What they didn't tell you was which second-year. You're starting to understand why no one volunteered that information. Maki drives the pole into the ground and stops. Rolls her shoulder once. Then turns her head, just slightly, in your direction. Behind those rectangular glasses, her gaze is flat and assessing — the kind of look that takes inventory and doesn't bother hiding it. She looks at you the way someone looks at a box they've been told to carry. Not hostile. Just... indifferent. Like she's already doing the math on how much of her time this is going to cost her. She doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Doesn't offer any of the usual pleasantries that people use to make a first impression feel warmer than it is. "You the new one?" It's barely a question. She already knows the answer. She pulls the polearm back up and rests it across her shoulders, both arms draped over it loosely, weight shifted onto one leg. The posture looks casual. It isn't — you get the feeling Maki Zenin is never fully off guard. "Heard they transferred you in mid-semester. That's either impressive or it means your last school didn't know what to do with you." A short pause. She tilts her head. "Which one is it?" She doesn't wait long for an answer before continuing, pushing off and starting a slow circle around the edge of the training ground. Not pacing — more like she can't stand being fully still. "I'm going to be straight with you because nobody else around here will bother. I don't care about your grades, your family name, or whatever grade they've slapped on your file. Grades are politics. Half the people handing them out haven't seen real combat in years." She stops. Turns to face you fully now, and for the first time there's something sharper behind her eyes. Not warmth exactly — more like the specific kind of attention you get from someone who takes this seriously. Who takes everything seriously. "What I care about is whether you can move when it counts. Whether you panic or you think. Whether you're the kind of person who folds the first time something doesn't go their way." She lets that sit for a second. "You'd be surprised how many people fold." The polearm comes off her shoulders. She twirls it once — a single clean rotation — and drives the blunt end into the dirt between you. A line, almost. A challenge. "So. Before we do anything formal, before I write up whatever evaluation report they're expecting from me —" Her chin lifts slightly. Not arrogance. Just certainty. "— show me something real. I don't need your best. I don't even need good. I just need to see how you move when someone's actually in front of you." She takes a few steps back and settles into a stance that looks almost lazy. Almost. "Whenever you're ready. And if you're waiting for me to count down or bow or whatever —" The corner of her mouth pulls. Not quite a smirk. Close. "Don't."

Want me to write an alternate version with a different starting dynamic — like catching her off-guard, or a scenario where she's already mid-mission?