I stepped onto the center of the mat.
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The surface felt different now—colder, harder, like it knew something I didn’t.
Jace stood across from me, his chest still heaving from the last exchange. His knuckles were white. His jaw was tight. But his eyes—his eyes were the thing that had changed.
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They weren’t hungry anymore.
They were calculating.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
His voice came out lower than before. Almost gentle. Like he was trying to sound reasonable now that the audience had turned against him.
I didn’t answer.
Behind me, Marcus stood with his arms crossed. Not moving. Not speaking. Just present.
Like a wall I could lean against.
Jace took a step forward.
“I said you don’t have to do this.”
“I heard you.”
My voice surprised me. It sounded steadier than I felt.
The crowd had gone unnervingly quiet. Someone’s phone was still recording—I could see the little red light blinking from the front row. The murmur of whispers had faded to almost nothing.
Everyone was waiting.
Jace raised his hands.
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I raised mine.
And then he moved.
He came in fast—faster than I expected for someone his size. His right hand shot toward my collar, the same grip he’d used before. The same hold that had nearly put me to sleep on this exact mat ten minutes ago.
But I wasn’t the same person who had tapped.
I slipped sideways.
His hand closed on air.
The crowd gasped.
Jace stumbled forward, off-balance, and I let him. I didn’t chase. I didn’t pounce. I just moved to the side and watched him recover.
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Marcus’s voice echoed in my memory.
*Don’t chase. Let them come to you. Always let them come.*
Jace straightened up and turned toward me. His face had gone red—not from exertion, but from embarrassment.
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“You got lucky.”
I said nothing.
He charged again.
This time I caught his wrist.
The movement was so familiar it almost hurt—the angle of the grab, the rotation of my hips, the way my body remembered what my mind had forgotten. Marcus had drilled this into me a thousand times, ten years ago, on mats just like this one.
Jace’s eyes went wide.
He tried to pull back, but I had already shifted my weight. His momentum carried him forward, and I used it. A small circle. A quiet redirect. His body followed the path I created.
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He hit the mat hard.
Not because I slammed him. Because he slammed himself.
The crowd erupted.
I stepped back immediately. No celebration. No smile. Nothing.
Just like Marcus had taught me.
Jace scrambled to his feet. He was breathing harder now, and the confidence that had radiated off him earlier was completely gone. In its place was something uglier.
Anger.
“You think you’re better than me?”
I didn’t answer.
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“You think because some old man taught you a few tricks that you can—”
“Stop talking.”
The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Jace froze.
I stepped forward.
“You talked the entire match. You talked when I was trapped. You talked when I tapped. You talked when Marcus stepped onto this mat.”
I felt my hands trembling, but I didn’t stop.
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“And you’re still talking. But you’re not saying anything.”
Jace’s face twisted.
He lunged at me—no technique this time. No strategy. Just raw frustration and wounded pride.
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I saw it coming from a mile away.
Marcus had trained me to read bodies, not words. And Jace’s body was screaming at me.
I ducked under his swing.
I caught his back.
And I pulled him down.
He landed face-first on the mat, and I moved immediately to his back. My legs wrapped around his waist. My arm snaked under his chin.
The position was familiar.
Too familiar.
This was exactly where he had held me.
And now I was the one in control.
Jace thrashed beneath me. His elbow dug into my thigh. His heels kicked against the mat.
“Get off!”
His voice cracked.
I held on.
“You wanted me to break,” I said quietly, close to his ear.
“You wanted me to quit. You wanted me to stay down.”
He kept struggling.
I tightened the hold. Not enough to hurt him. Just enough to let him know I could.
“But I don’t break.”
Jace’s movements slowed.
His breathing was ragged now—short, desperate gasps.
From somewhere in the crowd, I heard a voice.
“She’s got him.”
Another voice.
“He’s trapped.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Jace’s arm tapped the mat once.
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Just once.
I released him immediately.
He rolled onto his back, gasping, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
I stood up.
The arena exploded.
People were on their feet—cheering, clapping, shouting my name. I didn’t even know they knew my name. Someone in the front row was crying. Someone else was laughing.
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But I wasn’t looking at any of them.
I was looking at Marcus.
He stood exactly where I’d left him, arms still crossed, face still unreadable. But something in his posture had shifted. His shoulders were looser. His chin was higher.
And for just a second, I saw it.
A smile.
Small. Almost invisible.
But it was there.
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I walked toward him.
The crowd’s noise faded into background static.
I stopped a few feet away.
“You knew,” I said.
Marcus tilted his head.
“Knew what?”
“That I could beat him.”
He didn’t answer.
“You knew the whole time.”
Marcus looked past me, toward Jace, who was still lying on the mat. Then his eyes came back to mine.
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“I knew what I taught you.”
I shook my head.
