He swung his massive right arm in a wide, careless arc, aiming to grab my torso and toss me like a ragdoll. Time seemed to slow down. I didn't back away. As his arm swung toward me, I ducked cleanly under it, stepping deeply inside his guard. I violently rotated my hips, hooking my right leg behind his planted left ankle. Using the momentum of his own forward lunge, I drove my forearm into his chest and executed a devastatingly precise leg sweep.
Marcus’s leg flew completely out from under him. He had nothing but empty air beneath his 250-pound frame.
He crashed flat onto his back on the blue mat with a sickening, heavy thud that shook the floorboards beneath my feet. All the air left his lungs in a violent rush.
"Let's go!" Rocco screamed off-camera, lowering his phone in absolute shock. "She took him down! Special delivery!"
The entire gym erupted into chaotic shouting. Marcus slid across the slick blue vinyl, groaning as he clumsily propped himself up on his elbows. He stared up at me, his face a portrait of utter bewilderment and burning humiliation.
I didn't gloat. I simply dropped my stance, walked back to the black bench, and picked up the heavy cardboard carton.
"Delivery complete," I said, my voice deadpan.
I turned toward the exit, my heart pounding in my throat. I had done it. I had gotten inside, made a scene, and left the box exactly where it needed to be.
But before I could take a second step, a slow, echoing clap cut through the noise of the cheering fighters.
I froze.
Standing on the metal staircase leading down from the glass-walled VIP office was Silas Thorne. He was wearing a sharp, custom-tailored grey suit that looked entirely out of place in a sweaty gym. His hair was slicked back, his eyes dark and calculating. He didn't look at Marcus on the floor. He was looking directly at me.
"Impressive," Silas called out, his voice smooth and dangerous. He slowly descended the stairs, stepping onto the blue mat. The crowd of fighters instantly parted for him, the laughter dying in their throats. Silas walked right up to me, his eyes dropping to the cardboard carton in my arms. "But I didn't order any equipment this week."
My blood ran cold. If Silas didn't order the package, he was going to ask who did.
Silas reached out, his manicured finger tapping the white shipping label plastered to the top of the box. He leaned in, reading the black ink.
Silas’s face went completely pale. His eyes snapped up to meet mine, filled with a sudden, unmasked terror.
"Where did you get this?" Silas whispered, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.
Because the name printed on the delivery manifest wasn't his.
It was Leo Vance.