I follow, my sneakers squeaking against the polished concrete.
He's changed out of his tailored suit into tactical gear—black cargo pants, a fitted black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the massive breadth of his shoulders, heavy boots.
He looks like he's about to go to war.
Which, I guess, he is.
"Show me," he says.
I blink.
"Show you what?"
"The pressure-point strikes. The exact technique you described in the boardroom. I need to understand the mechanics before I can teach my operatives."
Right.
Okay.
I can do this.
I walk over to him, my brain shifting into clinical mode.
"The primary vulnerability is here," I say, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "The deltoid anchor point. If you apply sustained pressure—or a sharp kinetic strike—to this specific location, it triggers a cascade failure in the surrounding musculature."
He nods.
"Demonstrate."
I press my fingers into the muscle, finding the trigger point.
His skin is warm.
Not hot.
Not cold.
Just... warm.
Smooth slate-gray stone that shifts under my touch, softening slightly as I apply pressure.
"You need to angle your strike from above," I say. "Coming down at a forty-five-degree angle. If you hit straight-on, you'll just bruise the muscle. But if you come from above, you compress the nerve cluster and trigger the lock."
"Show me with force," he says.
I hesitate.
"Cyprian, I don't want to hurt you."
"You will not hurt me. I need to feel the full impact to understand how my operatives should execute the technique."
I take a breath.
Center myself.
And then I drive my elbow down into his shoulder with as much force as I can generate.
The impact reverberates up my arm.
