His laughter vibrates my chest, and I’m caught by his dancing silvery gaze. I’ve seen humor in Flanagan’s eyes, but never laughter.

I let go of a strap to stroke the three thin plaits at the side of his head, running my fingers over the bumpy texture because I realize something.

“These are for them, aren’t they? Your family?”

He gives a subtle nod. “Yes.”

I stroke them slowly as he watches my face. Three plaits for a wife and two daughters. “I wish I could have met them.”

He brushes hair from my eyes. “They’re gone,” he says, tone as flat and dry as sand.

“Commander? Shall we continue.” Zahir’s deep voice shocks a jump from me. I’d forgotten where I was.

“Hm? Yes. Yes, of course.” I think Flanagan had forgotten where he was too. “Move on to the next stage, please.”

Zahir swaps places with Flanagan, and as he approaches me, he can barely suppress his grin. Whatever he thinks he just saw, he’s chuffed about it.

“You can let go of the straps now, Michael. I want you to follow my movements.” He spreads his legs and dips into a stance. I mirror the posture, already missing Flanagan’s warmth.

With palms facing inwards, Zahir draws his hands up from his belly to his shoulders, then sweeps them out into a circle and repeats.

I’m familiar with the stance—a standard posture for most martial arts, but I’ve never done anything like Qigong before. I feel a bit daft, if I’m honest. Zahir makes it look easy, all grace and sweeping gestures. My awkward, exaggerated version is more like a boxer trying ballet.

But after a few minutes of the same move, I feel a change. The Flame shifts and flows inside me, whooshing through my body to follow my hands like an invisible fiery river. It shimmies with excitement, as if enjoying my attention. The river expands until it swallows my whole width. I find myself dipping lower to catch the blissful energy and send it out in wider circles.

“Very good,” Zahir says. “You’re feeling the Flame respond to you?”

“Yeah. Feels amazing.”

“Good. You’re a quick learner.” Zahir’s whole arms ignite, making me jump.

His grin has a challenge to it. “I want you to imagine a flame in the palm of your hand, Michael.”

I remember Seonu in the car on the way to the steelworks, showing me that flame bobbing in her palm. I imagine my hand lighting the same way. The Flame responds, buzzing through my muscles like a swarm of trapped fireflies.

Nothing happens.

I try harder, eyes tightly closed. The Flame spins down my arms. My hands flare with heat. I open my eyes to check, but there’s no bobbing flame. “It’s not working.”

Zahir’s brow creases. “Okay. Don’t worry. You feel the Flame inside you?”