The rhythm was becoming ingrained. Parry, riposte, advance, retreat. The clang of steel against steel echoed in the small, dimly lit dojo, a symphony of controlled aggression. Sweat plastered Ethan's hair to his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he ignored it. He was focused, laser-like, on Marcus's movements. The old man, a weathered oak in the heart of New York City, was relentless.