Thorne looked at the instructor. There was a brief, silent exchange between the two older men—a flicker of understanding that no one else in the room caught.
“I don’t decline,” Thorne said evenly.
Vance nodded once. He stepped back off the mat. “Center. Touch gloves if you want. Grapple to submission. No striking to the spine or groin. Begin.”
Miller didn’t touch gloves. He didn’t offer a hand. He practically sprinted to the center of the mat, his heavy boots squeaking violently against the foam.
“I’m gonna break your neck, old man,” Miller spat.
“Your breathing is erratic,” Thorne replied softly, raising his hands back to his guard. “You’re fighting your ego, Miller. Not me.”
Miller roared and lunged, abandoning any semblance of disciplined technique. He threw himself forward, arms wide, intent on crushing the quiet sergeant through sheer force.
Thorne didn’t step away this time. He stepped directly into the collision.
Chapter 2: The Assessment
The impact sounded like two heavy sandbags colliding, but Thorne’s feet never left the mat.
As Miller slammed into him, Thorne instantly dropped his hips, sinking his center of gravity below Miller’s waist. He drove his forehead into the hollow of Miller’s collarbone, locking his arms around Miller’s ribs with the grip of a vice. Miller tried to wrench his hips back to throw a knee, but Thorne was too tight. The older NCO stuck to Miller like a second skin.
Miller groaned, locking his massive arms around Thorne’s upper back in a bear hug, attempting to squeeze Thorne’s ribs until they cracked.
“Squeeze harder, Specialist,” Thorne’s voice was muffled against Miller’s chest, completely calm. “Burn your forearms out.”
Infuriated by the taunt, Miller clamped down with all his 220 pounds of muscle, gritting his teeth as he squeezed. He expected Thorne to gasp, to panic, to struggle for air. But Thorne just adjusted his breathing, letting his ribs compress slightly while supporting his weight on his skeletal structure rather than fighting the pressure with muscle.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Miller’s biceps began to burn. Lactic acid flooded his forearms. His heavy, adrenaline-fueled breathing became ragged. He was expending massive amounts of energy trying to crush a man who felt like he was made of reinforced concrete.
“Your grip is slipping,” Thorne noted, entirely analytical.
Miller cursed, realizing his arms were giving out. He tried to unlace his fingers to transition to a headlock.
The exact millisecond Miller released the pressure, Thorne exploded.
Thorne stepped his left foot deeply behind Miller’s right heel. With a sharp twist of his upper body and a sudden, violent downward pull, Thorne swept Miller’s foundation entirely out from under him.
For the second time, Miller crashed onto the mat. But this time, Thorne stayed on his feet, standing directly over him.
The fifty soldiers watching were completely motionless. The air in the gym had grown heavy. This wasn’t a sparring match anymore. It was an autopsy. They were watching the systematic dismantling of the biggest bully in the company.