Hayes walked slowly toward the edge of the mat, her combat boots silent on the foam. She stopped three feet from him and held out her hand.
“I wasn’t stalking you, Corporal,” Hayes said, her voice remaining perfectly steady, completely devoid of the emotion Vance was drowning in. “I just don't like wasting energy.”
Chapter 2: The Assessment
“Energy,” Vance spat, pulling the notebook slightly out of her reach. “You’re sitting on the bench for three weeks writing creepy dossiers on guys in your unit, and you call it saving energy?”
The tension in the gym spiked. A few soldiers muttered under their breath. In the high-adrenaline, testosterone-heavy environment of Army combatives, physical defeat was part of the culture. You tapped, you shook hands, you moved on. But psychological defeat—being reduced to an equation on a piece of paper—felt invasive. It felt like a violation of the rules.
“Corporal,” Instructor Silva said, his boots clicking against the concrete as he walked over. He didn't yell. The sheer weight of his rank did the work for him. He held out his hand. “Give me the book.”
Vance hesitated, his jaw tight, before finally slapping the notebook into Silva’s palm.
Silva didn’t close it. He looked down at the pages. He flipped past the entry on Vance. He turned another page, and then another. The gym was quiet enough to hear the soft rustle of the paper.
Hayes stood motionless. Her expression remained neutral, but a slow, tight breath expanded her ribcage.
Silva stopped flipping. His eyes scanned a heavily detailed spread near the back of the book.
“Staff Sergeant J. Silva,” Silva read softly, his voice echoing over the quiet mats. “Exceptional balance. Relies on judo-based hip throws rather than brute force. Tell: Flexes right hand twice before executing a collar drag. Vulnerability: Protects a surgically repaired C4 vertebrae. Over-commits to wrist control.”
A ripple of genuine shock went through the assembled soldiers. Vance looked at Silva, expecting the instructor to explode, to smoke Hayes until she passed out, or throw her out of the gym.
Instead, Silva looked up from the page. He stared at Hayes for a long, quiet moment. There was no anger in his eyes. There was only a cold, professional assessment.
He closed the notebook and handed it back to her.
“Accurate,” Silva said simply.
Vance let out a sound of disbelief. “Accurate? Staff Sergeant, she’s sitting there profiling everyone in the room! It’s a trick. She’s studying notes instead of training.”
“It’s tactical intelligence, Corporal,” Hayes said, sliding the notebook back into her duffel bag. She zipped it shut with a sharp, final sound. “In a kinetic environment, brute strength fails against superior geometry. You attack where you feel strong. I attack where you are blind.”
Vance pointed a thick finger at her. “You didn’t fight me. You caught me on a gimmick. You memorized a parlor trick.” He stepped closer to the edge of the mat. “Tomorrow is the final evaluation gauntlet for the Level 2 certification. No notes. No sitting on the bench. Company Commander is going to be sitting right there in those bleachers.”
Vance pounded his chest. “I want her. First match. No pulling punches.”
Silva looked at Vance, assessing the raw, bruised ego radiating off the heavy soldier. Then he looked at Hayes. “Sergeant?”
“I accept,” Hayes said, picking up her bag.
“Good,” Vance snapped, turning away. “Memorize all the angles you want, mouse. Tomorrow, I’m changing the math.”
The gym cleared out shortly after. Hayes remained behind, unspooling the white cotton wraps from her knuckles. The silence of the empty gym felt heavier than the noise.