Derek’s patronizing smile vanished, replaced by a tight, hard line. His ego had been pricked in front of an audience. He pointed a finger at Sophie. "Want me to show her how a real takedown feels?"
Sophie held up her hands and took a frantic step backward. "No, no, I’m good, really. I'm okay."
Derek ignored her completely. His eyes were locked entirely on Claire. He stepped deeper into her space, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Come on. Thirty seconds. Let's move."
Claire looked at him, her face a mask of absolute calm. "No thanks."
"It’s just movement. Just feeling out the grips."
"I’m working with Sophie."
"I’ll go light," Derek promised, lying through his teeth. "I won't smash you."
"No."
That single, two-letter word bothered Derek more than a slap to the face. It wasn't because it was particularly rude or aggressive. It bothered him because of how remarkably *easy* it was for her to say it. Claire had denied him, rejected his challenge, without looking away, without looking embarrassed, and without appearing even slightly intimidated by his size, his rank, or his reputation.
Derek looked over his shoulder, ensuring Brandon's camera was still rolling, capturing the standoff. He turned his attention back to the tiny woman in the faded shirt.
"You told Mike you used to train," Derek pushed, his voice carrying an edge of mockery.
"I did," Claire replied calmly.
"So move around with me. Prove it."
Claire smiled, a very faint, almost sad turning up of the corners of her mouth. "I already am moving around. With Sophie."
A few of the blue belts sitting against the wall couldn't help it; they let out stifled, muffled laughs.
Derek’s cheeks flushed a dark, angry red. The veins in his neck pushed against his skin. Before he could escalate the situation further, a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"Derek," Mike's voice thundered across the mats.
The black belt whipped around. "What?"
"Leave her alone. Now."
Under normal circumstances, a direct order from the head coach in front of the entire team should have ended the confrontation instantly. Instead, in Derek's warped perception of the gym's ecosystem, it only validated his twisted curiosity. Mike Callahan was known for protecting the brand-new, fragile beginners. He did not usually run interference for visiting, able-bodied adults.
Derek looked back and forth between the massive coach and the small, quiet woman. "What, is she fragile or something? Will she break?"
Claire’s expression hardened, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to neutral.
Mike stepped closer, towering over his student. "No. She won't break."
"Then what is the exact problem here, Mike?" Derek demanded, spreading his arms wide.
"The problem," Mike growled, pointing a thick, taped finger directly at Derek's chest, "is that I am the head coach of this academy, and I told you to leave my guest the hell alone. Get a partner and drill, or get off my mat."
Derek held his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "Fine. Jesus. Fine."
He stepped away, marching across the room to grab a drilling partner, his mind racing, his pride stinging. The incident lay dormant for exactly ten minutes.
Then, the buzzer blared, signaling the start of the live competition rounds. Five-minute intervals of high-intensity, full-resistance grappling.
Mike, still harboring a simmering anger toward Derek, intentionally paired him with Tommy Briggs. Tommy was a twenty-eight-year-old, thickly muscled purple belt who outweighed Derek by a solid fifteen pounds and was known for a grueling, suffocating top game. It was meant to be a punishing round.
It wasn't. Derek was angry, and his anger made his technique viciously sharp. He controlled the vast majority of the grueling five-minute round. In the final minute, when Tommy finally managed to secure a deep underhook and force a half-guard sweep, Derek didn't concede the position. He scrambled with explosive, desperate violence, reversing the heavier man in mid-air, crashing down into the mount, and ruthlessly sinking in an Ezekiel choke across Tommy's throat, forcing a frantic, gagging tap with just seconds left on the clock.
Brandon, as always, had stepped right to the edge of the mat to record the final, victorious thirty seconds.
When the buzzer sounded, Derek stood up, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his nose. He didn't check on Tommy. He immediately looked across the room toward the wall.
Claire was sitting with her back against the cinderblocks, unscrewing the cap of a plastic water bottle. She had watched the final exchange of the round. She offered absolutely no reaction. No widening of the eyes, no nod of respect, no applause. Just a blank, calm stare before she took a drink of water.