If he hits any of my vitals, it would mean an instant end to my existence as Christian Adler.
Still, my thoughts are quiet.
The fight has only just begun but I’m being forced back instantly. When he aims for my face, I move my head away just in time to evade and when he aims for my body, I’m sure to step out of reach with minimal movement, conserving my energy. I’m able to get behind him before being closed in by the ropes of the ring and he smiles at me, much like a cat enjoying a running mouse.
Olsen’s strength is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Each punch holds power that would make an average man flinch, and even as I successfully move out of the way, a kick follows the attack, forcing my arms up to block and pushing my entire body backwards on impact.
Still, there’s no time to rest, no time tobreatheas he follows through again and again.
His offense shows nothing of the laidback man I saw with the team the other day, no—Olsen is deadly and vicious and any lapse in attention could mean death.
But it’s still slow.
Much too slow to end me.
And he notices. He notices I’ve not attacked—notices the look in my eyes that says I’ve not lost focus—that I can see everything.
The men outside the ring grumble about the fight, about my evasion and my lack of offense, but Olsen’s smile only fades more and more as the seconds tick by.
I’m pushed into a corner and forced to take the strike—sometimes a barrage of them in tandem, attempting to break down my guard—and each of them hits into my bones over and over and over again.
But even though I’m being pushed back, he can’t break it.
Finally, the barrage ceases. Both of us are still, chests heaving, watching each other without a sound. I can feel the lingering impacts of his attacks along my arms, somehow still vibrating in my bones.
He’d expected me to fall a long time ago. But his barrages haven’t been effective, and I haven’t attempted to attack. He’s becoming wary, suspicious. His experience is surely telling him something is wrong. Something is off.
And you can always expect a professional to trust his instincts.
He unsheathes his knives from where they sit on his legs and finally, after three days of empty nothingness, I feel a sliver of emotion. Something unfamiliar and short, like a spark in my chest—a flame trying to come to life.
I unsheathe Tobias’ knife from its holster around my waist, and it flickers again, something raw and unknown and… mad.
When it finally lights inside me…
This time I am the predator and the wildcat.
I break out of my stillness with new ferocity, and this time, it is Olsen’s turn to be pushed back.
It is my turn to take away his chance to breathe.
He blocks my blade because I want him to, and he is forced back a step because he is unprepared. But I don’t wait, I step forward to get into his guard andpivot around him, dragging my blade across his open side, to slice along his skin, before he can react.
By the time he turns back to me, I am there again, tearing his guard open with my blade, and pivoting to swing my foot into his chest.
He staggers backward, caught off guard, before recovering quickly and stepping in to attack, once again biting into that oafish strength of his that could probably uproot trees.
But I am incited by strange madness.
I step out of his swing to hold onto his arm and propel my body up onto his.
After all, I was a cat for 571 days.
I have both balance and flexibility.
With all his strength, he balances the both of us quite well.
I have his throat straddled between my thighs when I tug sharply on his hair to force his head up and hover my dagger dangerously close to his eyes.
