Leon bobs, weaves back and away, circling with that knife still at the ready but untested against Krauser (for a second time); he blames the heat, the lingering shock of seeing him again on why he feels his skin prickle at the proximity. Thinks Krauser is fucking with him and that's why he's leaving him openings. He isn't his student anymore, Krauser isn't the officer who took him under his brutal, unyielding wing, he isn't the wounded soldier dragged home just to be put out to pasture. So there's no reason to care that failing to exploit an opening would be failing a test, and yet—

He does it, tells himself that he doesn't need to prove anything anymore, not to Krauser; Leon surges forward with his damp hair peeling back from his face, blue eyes sharp in their focus, and the kick he stomps out at Krauser's exposed flank is harder to recover from when these shoes have no grip to speak of. He tucks himself back, losing a shoe to the tangled undergrowth in order to regain his balance.

"Spoils of war," he tosses back, "That's something you'd say!"