Victor slip-skulks into the room, in a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and loose pants. She almost wore short sleeves, because that's what you're supposed to wear when you work out, but she couldn't manage it. Her shirt is a terrific shade of green, the color of sunlight shining through a blade of grass.

"Hi," she mumbles, looking at the ground. She looks shy. Nervous. Her body-language is screaming fear, if you know what to look for. Sparring is scary. Sparring is contact. Sparring is someone's hands on her.