Her Black Belt Ex Tried to Humiliate Me at the Dojo — He Didn’t Know Who I Was
Chapter 6
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"Understood," I said, standing casually, my hands hanging loosely at my sides. I didn't take a fighting stance. I didn't put my hands up. I just stood there, relaxed.Brandon found this infuriating; he wanted me terrified or aggressive, he wanted a reaction. "Touch gloves," Brandon said, stepping forward with his fists raised.I didn't move my hands. "We aren't wearing gloves, Brandon. Let's just get this over with."Brandon's face flushed. His ego had taken a hit in front of his disciples. "Fine," he hissed. "Let's go."The referee, one of Brandon's senior students, chopped his hand through the air. "Begin."Brandon didn't waste a second. He wanted an early, devastating knockout to prove his point. He lunged forward, closing the distance instantly, throwing a textbook, lightning-fast right roundhouse kick aimed directly at my ribs.It was a beautiful kick: flawless technique, incredible speed generated by years of practicing in front of a mirror. It was also completely predictable. In the real world, you don't throw high kicks unless you want to end up on your back with a knife in your ribs; high kicks require balance, and they telegraph your intention.I didn't block it—blocking absorbs kinetic energy and hurts your arms. Instead, as his hip rotated, I simply stepped directly into his attack, inside the arc of the kick. The heavy part of his shin slapped harmlessly across my lower back instead of my ribs, the power completely smothered because I'd closed the distance before his leg could fully extend.Before he could pull his leg back or adjust his balance, I moved.Ten years in Delta Force doesn't teach you to fight fair: it teaches you physics, anatomy, and how to permanently disable a human body in the shortest amount of time possible. I brought my right forearm up in a short, brutal horizontal strike, crashing it directly into his throat—not hard enough to crush his windpipe, but hard enough to disrupt his breathing and send a shockwave into his brain stem.Brandon gagged, his eyes going wide with sudden primal panic. His hands flew up to protect his neck, abandoning all his carefully practiced guards. As his hands went up, I dropped my weight, stepping behind his planted left leg. I didn't use a judo throw or a wrestling takedown; I just drove my shoulder into his chest and kicked his only supporting leg out from under him with a vicious, unceremonious sweep.Brandon hit the mat hard, the impact knocking whatever breath he had left completely out of his lungs. A loud thud echoed through the silent gym.I didn't follow him to the ground to grapple. I didn't look for a submission. I stood over him, my chest barely heaving, my hands still unclenched. The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds. Brandon was gasping on the mat, clutching his throat, staring up at me with absolute, unfiltered terror. He had expected a scared civilian; he had expected to play with his food. He had just run headfirst into a brick wall moving at 60 mph."Get up," I said softly, staring down at him.