"There we go," Tyler whispered into the mic, stepping behind her. "Now you're refreshed. Now we can have a real conversation. Let me teach you gutters how to punch."
"You crossed the line," Whitney said. Her voice wasn't flat anymore. It was cold. Absolute, freezing cold.
Tyler chuckled. "Oh, am I scaring you?"
He didn't know one thing. The three seconds were up.
With a sudden, violent pivot, Whitney dropped her center of gravity. The shift was so fast the blonde student holding her left arm lost his balance forward. Whitney used his own momentum, stepping inside his guard and driving her elbow backward into his solar plexus. The breath left his lungs in a sharp hiss, and his grip failed.
Freeing her left side, she spun. The tattooed student on her right tried to secure a chokehold, but Whitney stepped into him, grabbing his gi collar with her free hand and executing a flawless Osoto Gari. The massive man hit the mat with a thud that shook the ring.
The crowd went dead silent. The heavy bass of the arena suddenly felt very far away.
In the scuffle, the right sleeve of Whitney's soaked gray shirt had caught on the tattooed man's grip and ripped violently from the cuff to the shoulder. The damp fabric peeled back, exposing her dark skin to the harsh arena lights.
There it was. The crescent scar.
Tyler Anderson stood frozen, the microphone slipping slightly in his hand. He was an arrogant man, but he was still a martial artist. He knew the lore. He had seen the Marine Corps Times spread in his father's office. He stared at the pale, curved line stretching from her shoulder to her elbow.