Predict. Strike.
Rolling my shoulders forward before twisting hard, I break his grip as I slam my elbow into his ribs. Once, twice, again—each hit sharper and more precise than the last. Bone meets bone. He gasps, grip faltering.
I hook my foot behind his ankle and sweep. The second man—leaner, faster—crashes down, felled by the momentum, his head cracking against the hardwood with a hollow thunk.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint for the kitchen, lungs burning.
I don’t need strength; I need angles. Momentum. Timing. And I’ve trained my whole life for moments this intense, even if I never thought I’d use it this way.
Not in my own damn house.
The back door hangs open. Wide and gaping, a taunt. He ran.
Of course he did. Left the damn door open to the world. Just the way he always left me open. Unprotected. Unseen. Unloved.
But I don’t even get to breathe. A line of fire whips around my throat—tight, sudden, choking. Rawhide. Leather. A fucking belt. My knees buckle.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” the voice snarls against my ear, the stink of cigarettes and something sour curling in my nose. “She’ll have to find someone else.”
She? Who the hell is she?
It doesn’t matter. Because I’m not dying this way. I’m not going out in my father’s kitchen with a belt around my neck, strung up and forgotten, some discarded stray.
My vision starts to fray at the edges, black spots swimming. Every instinct screams survive, but my muscles are sluggish and screaming for air. My fingers claw at the leather, and my nails dig in. It’s too tight. Too high.
Breathe. Center. Strike.
Coach Tompkins’ voice barrels through my skull, sharp and clean, snapping through my thoughts with the crispness of a gi in the air. I twist my hips, throw all my weight backward, and slam us into the wall. We hit with a bone-rattling crash. The drywall gives with a crunch. His grip falters; not completely, but just enough for me to suck in a breath
My fingers fly, desperate and blind, scrabbling over the kitchen counter.
Smooth plastic. A spoon. Useless.
Then—Ceramic.
My hand closes around a mug, one of the old ones we never threw out. It’s heavy. Solid. I swing.
The mug smashes into his temple with a sickening crack. His scream is sharp, guttural. He reels, lurching sideways, as one hand clamps over the blood now pouring down his face.
I don’t wait to see how bad the damage is. I run.
The door slams against the siding as I hurl myself through it. The night air punches me in the face. It’s humid, sharp, and laced with gasoline and panic. My shoes slam against the wooden steps, then hit gravel, each jagged rock biting through the soles as if trying to drag me down. But I don’t stop.
The world blurs around me as darkness presses in on all sides. The night air is a slap to the face, cold and biting, slicing through the sweat and blood drying on my skin. Every breath scrapes sharp as broken glass in my throat. My body screams—throbbing ribs, bruised muscles, skin slick with pain—but I don’t stop.
And there he is.
My father.
Straddling his bike as if he’s out for a casual fucking joyride. Helmet on. Ready to vanish into the shadows.
As if he didn’t just try to sell me for five grand and a shrug. As if I meant nothing.
Something inside me ruptures. Snaps.
My vision tunnels, heart pounding with the rhythm of a war drum in my ears. Rage floods every vein, thick and molten, burning through the exhaustion and fear.
I charge.
