“Get up,” Thorne said, taking one step back.
Miller rolled onto his hands and knees, spitting a drop of sweat onto the mat. His arms felt like lead. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pulls. The adrenaline rush that had carried him for the first few minutes was evaporating, leaving behind the crushing reality of exhaustion.
“You’re too heavy,” Thorne said quietly, pacing slowly in a small semi-circle. “You lift weights for aesthetics, not functionality. You push instead of snap. Every punch you throw takes a full second of recovery. In a real firefight, a one-second delay means you die.”
“Shut up,” Miller panted, raising his heavy hands.
“You spend your time trying to intimidate men who don’t know how to defend themselves,” Thorne continued, his voice cold, stripping away Miller’s armor in front of the entire company. “You think combat is about looking tough. You’re loud because you’re terrified someone will figure out how slow you really are.”
“I said shut up!” Miller swung a wild, looping left hook.
Thorne batted it away effortlessly with an open palm, the slap of skin against skin sharp and stinging. Before Miller could pull his arm back, Thorne stepped in and delivered a brutal, precise inside leg kick just above Miller’s knee.
Thwack.
Miller buckled, his leg momentarily paralyzed as the nerve flared. He dropped to one knee, wincing.
Thorne didn’t follow up. He simply stepped back to his exact starting position.
“Get up,” Thorne repeated.
Miller looked up, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked past Thorne, desperately searching the crowd of soldiers. He expected to see them cheering for him, shouting encouragement. Instead, he saw dozens of faces staring at Thorne with a mixture of awe and fear. They weren’t looking at Miller anymore. He was suddenly invisible. He had been reduced to a training dummy.
He looked at Staff Sergeant Vance. Vance was leaning against the wall, checking his watch, completely unbothered by the fact that the battalion’s supposed champion was being humiliated.
“Sir,” Miller said breathlessly, looking at Vance. “He’s... he’s just waiting.”
“He is,” Vance replied simply. “Are you done, Specialist?”
“No!” Miller screamed, his pride rejecting the reality of his own body.
He forced himself back up. His thigh throbbed violently where Thorne had kicked it. He was limping. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he could not out-wrestle Thorne. He couldn’t out-think him. Thorne knew every habit Miller had, every weakness, every tells he displayed.
Thorne had sat in that metal chair for six weeks. He hadn’t been taking notes on the training manuals. He had been mapping the biomechanics, the flaws, and the psychology of every man in the room. He had been studying Miller.
If Miller couldn’t beat him fairly, he would have to hurt him. Really hurt him.
Miller locked eyes with Thorne. He faked a heavy breath, intentionally letting his hands drop to his waist, presenting the exact image of total surrender. He lowered his chin, acting as if he were about to speak, about to concede.
Thorne didn’t buy it, but he remained still.