I react too slow. His hand clamps around my wrist, yanks hard, and suddenly my balance is gone. I hit the mat on my side, air punched out of me. Pain shoots through my ribs.
“Dead,” he says simply.
I groan, roll to my back, and glare up at him. “You could just say that instead of dislocating my arm to prove a point.”
“You’d forget it.” He offers a hand; I take it out of spite. His grip is steady, calloused. “Next time, move before the hand reaches you. Anticipate.”
“Anticipate what? You move like a ghost.”
“That’s the point.”
He steps back, crosses his arms, watching. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. My arms shake, legs heavy. He’s relentless—every session like a survival bootcamp with no breaks.
“Again.”
“I just died!”
“You die again if you stop.”
God, he’s infuriating. I square my stance, hands up like he taught me—weight forward, knees bent. He lunges this time, fast. I twist, barely dodging his grip, pivot, and shove at his shoulder. He stumbles half a step.
“Better.”
That one word hits harder than it should.
We reset. He moves again, faster, unpredictable. I duck, elbow grazing his ribs. He grabs my forearm and pins it behind me before I even process what happened. My face nearly hits the mat.
“Dead,” he says again.
“Do you ever get tired of saying that?”
He almost smiles. “Not yet.”
I push up on my elbows, chest heaving. “You know, motivational speakers get paid for this kind of emotional abuse.”
He shrugs, calm. “They don’t keep people alive.”
Something about that makes me quiet. His eyes flick up—sharp, assessing—but softer than before.
“You’ll learn,” he says. “Tonight, you’ll need it.”
I nod, even though my muscles scream. I can’t tell if the shaking in my hands is adrenaline or fatigue.
The room goes quiet except for my breathing and the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Dima circles once more, making me reset.
“Again,” he says.
I move before he finishes the word. Step forward, pivot, shove, elbow. My movements aren’t clean, but they’re mine this time. He catches my wrist anyway, twisting it just enough to throw me off balance.
Then something shifts. A pause.
Dima’s attention flicks to the door.
I don’t have to look. I feel it first—the change in the air, that low static hum my body’s started to recognize before my brain does.
Anton.
I keep my stance out of pure stubbornness. My pulse jumps, betraying me.
