A tall student named Benjamin frowned. “Sensei… she’s a minor.”
Tom shot him a glare. “Do you doubt my methods?”
He faced Abigail again.
“Well?”
Abigail swallowed. For a split second, she remembered a small rooftop in East L.A. An older man with scarred hands and tired eyes. Her grandfather’s voice.
Promise me you’ll never use this to show off. Only to protect. Violence spreads easily. Dignity takes work.
“Okay,” she said. “I accept.”
The room held its breath.
She set down her backpack, slipped off her sneakers neatly, and stepped onto the mat. Her posture changed instantly—feet grounded, knees relaxed, hands open but ready.
Benjamin felt a chill.
That stance wasn’t sport.
Tom lunged first, throwing a sharp front kick.
He hit nothing.
Abigail pivoted lightly; the kick sliced through air. Tom stumbled a fraction. Embarrassed, he launched a quick series of punches.
She moved barely at all—small shifts, precise angles. His strikes met empty space.
“Your movements are too wide,” she said quietly.
Fury flashed across his face. He charged recklessly.
That was the moment she stepped in.
One controlled deflection. One precise strike—short, clean, perfectly placed.
It wasn’t flashy.
It was exact.