“Brandon.”
“What?”
“Knock it off.”
Brandon raised both hands.
“Just joking.”
Mia remained silent.
That silence gave Brandon permission in his own mind.
He assumed embarrassment.
Weakness.
Submission.
The drill began.
Brandon moved first.
Mia gave ground.
He feinted.
She reacted half a beat late.
Or appeared to.
Brandon smiled.
He pressured her.
Frank narrowed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
Mia’s mistakes were too clean.
She was not failing.
She was choosing to look inexperienced.
Brandon stepped across.
He used one firm leg sweep.
Harder than necessary.
Not dangerous.
But disrespectful.
Mia landed safely.
Her shoulder touched the mat.
No injury.
Several people reacted.
Brandon stood above her.
“Go home.”
Silence.
Frank took one step forward.
Then stopped.
Because Mia looked up.
Not angry.
Not humiliated.
Just finished.
She stood slowly.
Her expression changed.
Something in her face went still.
She removed only the outer sage-green jacket.
Dropped it beside the mat.
Underneath, the same dusty-blue fitted top.
The same dark wraps already secured around her hands.
She tightened one wrap.
Once.
Brandon smiled.
“Finally mad?”
Mia looked at him.
“You done?”
Nobody laughed.
She stepped forward.
One precise step.
Her left foot angled outward.
Weight centered.
Shoulders loose.
Hands positioned in a guard that looked almost old-fashioned.
Frank’s blood went cold.
No.
Impossible.
Brandon saw only a stance.
Frank saw a ghost.
Twenty years disappeared.
He was forty-eight again.
Standing in a private training room beneath an abandoned warehouse near Cicero.
Watching a man named Daniel Lawson demonstrate that exact angle.
That exact lowered shoulder.
That exact placement of the rear heel.
Frank whispered:
“No.”
Nobody heard him.
Brandon raised his gloves.
Mia pivoted.
Her body rotated with almost no wasted movement.
One controlled spinning heel kick.
No jump.
No dramatic windup.
Her heel traveled toward Brandon’s neck.
Then stopped.
Completely.
Two inches from his skin.
Brandon froze.
Mia held the position.
Perfect balance.
No contact.
No impact.
Not even a brush against his shirt.
The gym became silent.
Frank stared.
Twenty years.
He heard his own voice before he decided to speak.
“That kick…”
Everyone turned.
Frank stood alone near the edge of the mat.
His eyes were wide.
“I haven’t seen it in twenty years.”
Mia slowly lowered her leg.
Brandon stepped backward.
His confidence had vanished.
Mia looked at Frank.
That was the first moment she seemed afraid.
Not of Brandon.
Of recognition.
Frank walked toward her.
“Mia.”
She picked up her jacket.
“We’re done.”
He stopped.
“Where did you learn that?”
She put the jacket over her arm.
“Doesn’t matter.”