Tensed.
But didn’t escalate first.
It could still be nothing.
I glanced over my shoulder casually as I stood at the end of the curb, like I was checking traffic before I crossed.
There they were.
Two men.
No, three.
One was further back, his shape indistinct against the shadows between buildings.
He was too far for details.
But close enough to matter.
Someone said something, but I didn’t catch the words. The tone, though, the tone had my spine straightening.
“Back up,” I said. Calm. Clear. Not loud, not hysterical. In control.
The nearest man laughed.
My stomach tightened. It wasn’t fear, per se. Not yet. It was that flinch that told me to prepare, to draw up my years of training, to calculate my best moves.
They kept approaching.
I couldn’t run.
Running brought out a prey drive in predatory men like this.
My choice was to stand my ground and wait for my damn ride-share.
Three minutes?
Something like that.
I widened my stance, my heel shifting on cracked pavement to balance my weight, my knees loose.
I felt my body settle into something old and familiar, something that lived deeper than my nerves.
A hand reached for my arm.
And I moved.
Fast.
Sharp.
Below up, pivot, strike.
Bone gave under impact.
A loud curse filled the quiet air as he stumbled back, hand clutching his nose, red blood sliding from between his fingers.
“Get the bitch,” he snarled as he tried to stem the flow of blood.
