Reed’s office smelled of ancient leather, cigar smoke, and brewing coffee. The walls were lined with faded photographs of fighters, championship belts, and a single, small framed picture of a military unit standing in a desert landscape. Mia’s eyes flicked to the military photo instantly, a predator assessing the terrain.
Reed leaned against his battered metal desk. He didn't offer her a seat.
“That stance,” Reed began, his voice low and dangerous. “That sweep. The nerve strike. That isn’t MMA. That isn’t kickboxing. That’s a highly classified combatives program developed for Tier One operators. A program that was decommissioned twelve years ago because it was deemed too lethal for standard training.”
Mia stood perfectly still, her face an unreadable mask. “I watch a lot of videos online.”
Reed slammed his hand on the desk. The coffee cups rattled. “Don't insult my intelligence, kid. You don't learn muscle memory like that from a screen. You don't learn how to breathe through an adrenal dump from YouTube. Someone drilled that into your bones. Someone who survived it.”
Mia’s jaw tightened. She gripped the strap of her duffel bag. “If you want to kick me out for fighting, then just do it. I paid for my month. You can keep the money.”
“I’m not kicking you out,” Reed said, stepping closer. He looked into her eyes, searching for something very specific. “You have his eyes. Dark, stubborn, like they’re trying to burn a hole through a concrete wall.”
Mia stepped back, her guard instinctively rising a fraction of an inch. “Whose eyes?”
Reed reached a trembling hand toward the photograph on his wall. He pointed to a man standing next to a younger version of himself. The man in the photo had the same fierce, unyielding glare as the girl standing in the office.
“Elias Vance,” Reed whispered. “Call sign 'Wraith'. The best operator I ever served with. The man who designed the exact martial arts sequence you just used to dismantle a boy twice your size.” Reed turned back to her, his chest heaving with a sudden, overwhelming grief. “He was my brother in arms. And he died in a firefight outside Kandahar fifteen years ago.”
Mia stared at the photograph, her breath catching in her throat for the first time all day. Her voice, previously so cold and controlled, broke into a fragile whisper.
“He didn't die in Kandahar,” she said. “He died three months ago. In a hospital in Seattle. He was my father.”
Chapter Four: The Ghost of Elias Vance