He didn't ease into it. He snapped it tight with a violent jerking motion. The pressure closed around her throat and restricted the blood flow that kept her alert. The panic was instantaneous. It wasn't the slow, methodical squeeze of a partner practicing a move. It was mean. It was a punishment.
Sarah's hand slammed against the mat. Tap, tap, tap. Derek didn't let go. She tapped again, harder, frantically slapping his shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. He adjusted his grip, pulling tighter. He drove his forehead into the mat, locking his arms out.
The room began to narrow. The hum of the fluorescent lights faded into a loud, rushing static in Sarah's ears. Her body screamed for air, but the hold gave her almost none. She kicked her legs, no longer practicing jiu-jitsu, but reacting with the blind terror of someone who believed the danger was real.
The edges of her vision turned dark gray, then black. A strange, terrifying warmth flooded the back of her neck. He's going to kill me. That was her last coherent thought before her limbs went slack.
Moments later, the pressure vanished. Air rushed back into Sarah's lungs with a harsh, ragged wheeze. She curled onto her side, coughing violently, her chest heaving. Tears pricked her eyes, not from sadness, but from the raw, physiological shock of oxygen deprivation. Her throat felt bruised, a deep, throbbing ache radiating down to her collarbones.
Derek stood up, tying his belt with practiced nonchalance. He looked down at her. "You got to tap earlier, Sarah. Don't let your ego get in the way. In a real fight, nobody stops."