She turns it over in her hands. “Comforting.”
“You’re going to need to learn how to move without thinking,” I tell her, already activating the second baton in my grip. “Coalition trackers don’t care how good you are at cracking code if your feet betray you in a corridor.”
Her eyes sharpen. “So this is a lesson.”
“This is survival.”
She squares her stance automatically, like some part of her body already understands what her mind hasn’t caught up to yet. “Then teach me.”
Stars.
There it is.
Not fear. Not doubt.
Just that quiet, ferocious certainty that’s been building in her since she realized they didn’t just try to erase her—they tried toreplaceher.
I step closer, slow enough not to spook her, lifting her wrist gently and rotating it until the baton lines up with her forearm.
“First rule,” I say, “your weapon is an extension of your balance, not your strength. You fight from your center. Always.”
“My center,” she repeats dryly. “Great. Where is that, anatomically speaking?”
“Right here.” I tap two fingers lightly against her lower ribs.
She stiffens.
Not startled.
Aware.
“Try not to read into that,” I add.
“Oh, I’m absolutely reading into that,” she says, but she adjusts her grip anyway.
I step back and raise my baton. “Strike.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She hesitates a fraction too long.
I disarm her in one smooth motion, baton clattering against the floor between us.
She stares.
Then looks at me.
Then bursts out laughing. “Oh, you havegotto be kidding me.”
“Again,” I say calmly.
She mutters something about smug alien warriors and retrieves the baton.
This time she doesn’t wait.
She lunges.
