Your will lunges and an old injury yanks it sideways, the two scraping against each other from opposite corners of you. They stand ninety degrees apart in your chart: the centaur who learned his limits stamps the brake, the drive wants to break loose and run, and holding both at once has a real price. You have spent years learning when to strike and when the wound flatly forbids it, and that schooling was never gentle. Out of the pressure grows a fighter who can guard without wrecking the room. The shape you carry, force that knows its own scar, was bought with exactly this strain, paid in full.