"Excuse me?"

"They're too large."

Chase laughed.

"You need gloves."

"They'll interfere with my wrists."

Samuel suddenly stepped forward.

"She's right."

Chase turned.

"What?"

"Bring her the smaller pair."

Trevor frowned.

"Sam, she's never trained with us."

Samuel ignored him.

The assistant returned with a smaller pair.

Eleanor examined them carefully.

She rotated one wrist.

Then the other.

She pressed the padding.

She checked the straps.

Samuel's eyes narrowed.

A person with no experience would simply put on the gloves.

Eleanor was inspecting them the way a trained fighter would inspect equipment before a match.

The assistant tightened the straps.

Eleanor stepped backward.

Then she changed.

It happened so quietly that most of the crowd didn't notice.

Her knees softened.

Her weight settled evenly.

Her right heel lifted slightly.

Her shoulders relaxed.

Her chin lowered.

Her left hand floated forward.

Her right hand remained close to her ribs.

She stopped breathing visibly.

Samuel dropped the towel in his hand.

He knew that stance.

He had seen it once before.

Thirty-five years earlier.

In a small training hall in Oakland.

The woman standing in front of him had been younger then, but she had moved exactly the same way.

Her name was Eleanor Freeman.

And she had been trained by her husband, Harold Freeman.

Harold had never cared about trophies.

He had studied boxing, judo, karate, and several traditional systems before developing a practical defensive method for ordinary people.

His students included nurses, teachers, social workers, elderly people, and women who needed to protect themselves.

He taught one principle above everything else:

The strongest person in the room is not the one who can hurt everyone. It is the one who knows exactly when not to.

Eleanor had been his wife and his most advanced student.

Samuel had met her in 1989.

He had been twenty-one years old.

He thought he was good.

He had a black belt.

He had won several local competitions.

He believed speed was everything.

Harold had corrected that belief in less than thirty seconds.

Eleanor had corrected it permanently.

She hadn't beaten Samuel through strength.

She had simply waited until he became predictable.

Now he was watching her again.

At sixty-seven.

Still.

Balanced.

Patient.

Dangerous.

Samuel stepped forward.

"No."

Trevor looked at him.

"What?"

Samuel stared at Chase.

"Chase."

Chase turned.

"What?"

"End the challenge."

The crowd murmured.

Chase laughed.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"She's an old woman."

Samuel's expression hardened.

"That is exactly why you should be ashamed of this."

Chase glanced toward the cameras.

"What's wrong with you?"

Samuel walked closer.

"Chase, stop."

The champion's face reddened.

"You're ruining the segment."

"I don't care."

Trevor looked at the live viewer count.

"Four hundred thousand."

Samuel didn't look at him.

"That number doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"It shouldn't."

Chase stepped toward Samuel.

"You work for me."

Samuel shook his head.

"No."

He pointed toward Chase's chest.

"I train you. That's different."

Chase looked embarrassed.

He turned back toward Eleanor.

"What exactly did you see?"

Eleanor didn't answer.

Samuel did.

"She saw your feet."

Chase frowned.

"My feet?"

"Your weight distribution. Your lead shoulder. Your habit of loading your rear leg before you move."

Chase laughed.

"You think she can read all that?"

Samuel looked at Eleanor.

"She already did."

Eleanor finally spoke.

"You move too much."

The crowd laughed nervously.

Chase's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"You move when you don't need to."

"I move because I'm fast."

"No."

She looked at his feet.

"You move because you want people to notice that you're fast."

Silence.

The words landed harder than expected.

Chase stepped closer.

"You're very confident."

"I've learned the difference between confidence and noise."

A few spectators applauded.

Chase raised his gloves.

"Whenever you're ready."

Eleanor didn't move.

He bounced from foot to foot.

She watched.

He shifted left.

She watched.

He shifted right.

She watched.

"Come on," he said.

Nothing.

Five seconds passed.

Then ten.

Chase began smiling for the camera.

"She's thinking about the money."

Eleanor's eyes remained on his chest.

"You're thinking about the camera."

The crowd reacted.

Chase's smile disappeared.

He lowered his lead hand slightly.

An invitation.

"Hit me."

Eleanor did not move.

Chase turned his head toward the camera for half a second.

That was all.

Eleanor's lead foot slid forward.

Her left hand touched Chase's guard.

Not a punch.

A movement.

His arm shifted.

His balance changed.

Then her right fist traveled directly forward.

It was short.

Compact.

Almost invisible.

The glove struck the padded protector at the center of Chase's chest.

There was no dramatic sound.

But Chase's entire body reacted.

His feet left the mat.

He flew backward nearly six feet.

He landed hard.

The crowd gasped.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Chase tried to stand.

His knee buckled.

He dropped again.

Samuel rushed toward him.

"Breathe."

Chase sucked air into his lungs.

"I can't."

"You can."

Samuel placed a hand against his shoulder.

"Slowly."

Another breath.

Then another.

Chase looked toward Eleanor.

"What did you do?"

She removed her gloves.

"I used the opening."

"That wasn't one punch."

"It was."

"You moved my arm."

"I touched your guard."

"You pushed me."

"You offered me one opening."

Samuel looked at Chase.

"She's right."

Chase's face turned red.

"That was luck."

Samuel's voice became sharp.

"Don't call it luck."

Chase looked at him.

Samuel pointed toward Eleanor.

"You didn't lose because she was stronger."

"Then why?"