“Sera…”
She stepped further into the gym. “You told me last night that I’m your partner. On comms, on screens, in the operation. I’m holding you to that. You’re not alone in this anymore. In any part. I may not go out in the field, but we still do this together.”
The gym was quiet. Just the two of us and the low hum of the ventilation system and her words sitting in the air between us, refusing to move.
I couldn’t argue with it. Not after what I’d agreed to last night in the control room. Not after she’d stitched my shoulder and turned to Maude for the truth and told me she wasn’t watching me destroy myself anymore.
“Fine.” I unwrapped my hands. “If you’re serious, this isn’t a weekend hobby. You’ll need a real fitness plan. Strength and conditioning, not just technique. We build your endurance around your lungs, not in spite of them. The same way I work around my own body’s limitations.”
I walked to the center of the mat and turned to face her. “But we start now. With basics. Self-defense fundamentals that we’re going to drill until you end up dreaming about them. Come here.”
She came. No hesitation.
“Stance first. Feet shoulder-width apart. One foot slightly back. Weight distributed evenly. You want to be hard to knock over.”
I circled her. She stood the way she did everything, precise and intentional, like she was trying to get the geometry exactly right.
“Wider on the left foot. Drop your center of gravity.”
She adjusted. Better, but she was holding the position like a formula, trying to memorize it instead of feel it. I stepped behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. Pressed down.
“Stop thinking about where your feet are. Feel the floor. If I push you, you should be able to absorb it without moving.”
I pushed. Gentle. She rocked but held.
“Good. Again.”
I pushed harder. She adjusted without thinking this time, her weight shifting to compensate.
“Good. Now, basic strikes. You’re not punching. You’re driving the heel of your hand into a target. Nose, chin, throat.” I showed her the motion, slow, then at speed. “The power comes from your legs and hips, not your arm. Think of your arm as a piston. The engine is below your waist.”
I positioned her. Hand on her hip to correct the alignment, other hand on her elbow to adjust the angle. Clinical contact. Necessary contact. Except I could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric under my palm, and each correction was registering in a place that had nothing to do with technique.
“Now drive it. Imagine the target is six inches behind where you’re aiming. You’re not hitting a surface. You’re hitting through it.”
She drove. Not bad. Tentative, but structurally sound.
“Again. Harder.”
She went harder. I corrected her shoulder rotation, my hand between her shoulder blades, and I was aware that I was lingering. A fraction longer than the correction required. I let go and stepped to the side.
“Knee strikes next.” I stepped in front of her and bent slightly at the waist. “Grab the back of my neck with both hands. Pull me down toward you and drive your knee up into the midsection. You’re using my momentum against me.”
She put her hands on the back of my neck. Tentative at first, her fingers light against my skin.
“Harder. You’re not giving me a massage. Grip and pull.”
She pulled. I let her guide me down, and she drove her knee up. Once. Twice. The third time she found the right trajectory and the impact was solid enough to register.
“That one would work,” I said.
She almost smiled.
We moved through elbow strikes, basic combinations. She picked up the mechanics faster than I expected. The precision that made her stiff in the stance made her efficient with the strikes. She could see the architecture of each movement, understand the angles, and replicate them with minimal correction.
Her breathing was controlled. Short, measured exhales on each strike, the kind of breath management that came from a lifetime of negotiating with lungs that didn’t cooperate. She’d learned to ration her air the way I’d learned to ration my tolerance for open spaces. Different limitation. Same discipline.
We would ease her lung capacity up over time. Sudden bursts would do more harm than good.
