"You heard me." He moved toward the mats in thecorner, grabbing a second set of hand wraps from the shelf. "You want to have a conversation I don't know how to have. So let's do something I do know. Spar with me."
It wasn't what I'd expected. But maybe that was the point—meeting him where he was, speaking a language he understood.
I caught the hand wraps he tossed me and started winding them around my knuckles.
"Don't hold back."
"Wasn't planning to."
The first exchange told me everything I needed to know about how he fought.
Tank came at me hard and fast, no preamble, no feeling out. His punches were heavy, meant to end fights quickly—the kind of brutal efficiency you learned on the street, where hesitation got you killed. He didn't waste movement, didn't telegraph, just exploded forward with the expectation that I'd crumble under the assault.
I didn't crumble.
FBI defensive tactics training had drilled into me a different approach: redirect, control, use your opponent's momentum against them. I slipped his first punch, let his second slide past my shoulder, and used his forward motion to throw him off balance.
He caught himself, eyes widening slightly with surprise.
"Quantico. They taught us how to fight people bigger than us."
"Show me."
I did.
We circled each other, trading strikes and blocks, learning each other's rhythms. His power was undeniable—every hit I failed to redirect felt like getting kicked by a horse—but I was faster, more technical, better at reading tells and exploiting openings. He'd throw a haymaker; I'd duck under it and land a body shot that made him grunt. He'd try to clinch; I'd slip out with a joint manipulation that made him swear.
But he was learning. Adapting. By the third exchange, he'd started to anticipate my counters, to close the distance before I could use it against him. His street fighting became something else—still raw, still powerful, but more controlled. More deliberate.
"Not bad." I blocked a hook that would have rung my bell if it had landed.
"You either." He reset his stance, rolling his shoulders. Sweat was running down his chest now, catching the late afternoon light. "Where'd you learn that wrist thing?"
"Defensive tactics. Here?—"
I moved closer, took his wrist, showed him the angle. His skin was hot under my fingers, his pulse visible in the veins of his forearm. "It's about leverage, not strength. You rotate here, apply pressure here, and?—"
I demonstrated. He went to his knees, more from surprise than actual pain, and I released immediately.
"Jesus." He stood, shaking out his arm. "That's dirty."
"That's survival. Want to learn it?"
He did. And so we shifted from sparring to teaching—me showing him joint locks and pressure points, him showing me how to fight without rules. The dynamic changed, became something almost collaborative. Two people sharing knowledge, building something together.
"This one's good for when someone grabs you from behind." I demonstrated a technique on his arm. "You drop your weight, rotate into them, and?—"
I walked him through the motion slowly, then faster, feeling the way his body responded to guidance. He was a quick study—physical intelligence, Quantico would have called it. The ability to learn through movement rather than explanation.
"Now you. Show me something."
He thought for a moment, then moved behind me. "Street rule number one: never fight fair."
His arm came around my throat—not choking, just demonstrating position. I could feel the heat of his chest against my back, the solidity of him surrounding me.
"Everyone expects punches." His breath was warm against my ear. "They don't expect this."
He hooked his foot behind my ankle and shifted his weight. If he'd followed through, I'd havebeen on the ground before I knew what was happening.
