Zephyr gulped.
He stood stiffly at the edge of the marble-floored gymnasium, the early morning cold air biting faintly at his exposed ankles.
Across from him, Samantha was already mid-stretch, rolling her shoulders and bending side to side in long, smooth motions. She wore the standard combat uniform— black pants, a white shirt, and a reinforced training vest, practical and restrained.
Zephyr, on the other hand, was still in his white pajamas—with the same standard vest thrown over them like a poorly executed attempt at looking serious.
In his excitement to test his new weapon, it had completely slipped his mind that he was still wearing his pyjamas.
He had asked—politely, even—for a minute to change. Samantha had flatly refused.
"Nice try," she'd said. "You've pulled that 'changing clothes' stunt four times this month. Not again."
To be fair, she had a point. He had used it before to bail on training sessions. This time, though… he actually meant it.
