Page 151 of Resurgent

“You stabbed me yesterday!”

“It was barely a prick, and it looks like you learned from your mistake…” Another infuriating grin spreads across his face. “One could argue a ‘Thank you’, would be appropriate, but seeing that this is my job, I’ll let it pass.”

“Thank you? You’ve got to be—”

“Aww you’re welcome,” he sickly gushes right before his leg sweeps mine out from beneath me.

My back barely hits the ground before I'm surging upright again, teeth bared as I swing.

He ducks.

I adjust and press the attack.

Move. Countermove.

Just like that, our bodies settle into a beautifully synchronized rhythm. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Pure instinct. My body remembers what it used to be, even if my strength hasn't caught up yet, and he moves with the effortless confidence of someone who's led this dance a thousand times before, guiding the fight without ever making it feel like he's holding back.

Strike. Block. Pivot. Counter.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Korr’s mouth curves slightly. “There she is.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Not when every movement feels enhanced—when the burn in my ribs and the pull in my muscles fade to the background.

I drive forward.

He actually has to step back.

A flicker of victory sparks in my chest. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy that later—”

He sweeps my leg again and the ground slams into me as the air leaves my lungs in a rough grunt.

“Too slow,” he says.

“Too cocky,” I snap, gripping his ankle and yanking it hard.

Seconds later, we're both laughing too hard to keep fighting.

Hunter rolls onto an elbow first, shaking his head. "That was perfect." He reaches down, offering me a hand. "You went down, but you didn't give up."

I grin as he hauls me to my feet.

We reset our stances, circling once before he throws a light jab. I slip inside it, he counters, and we trade only a handful of practiced movements before a familiar ringtone slices through the quiet.

Korr groans as I circle again, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Get that.”

“No.”

It rings again.

I throw a punch. He blocks, our forearms colliding hard enough to sting. “It could be important.”

“If it’s important,” he says, stepping into me, forcing me to adjust, “they’ll call again.”