lot radiated heat through the soles of shoes. Inside the gym, the air conditioner

struggled against thirty sweaty children, a packed set of bleachers, and the bright

lights hanging above the green training mats.

Mason clapped his hands loudly. "All right. Tonight we are working on close-

range control."

The students formed neat rows. Parents looked up from their glowing phone

screens.

"What happens when someone larger gets inside your space?" Mason asked.

One boy raised his hand tentatively. "You move back?"

"Wrong." Mason paced before them like a caged tiger. "You take control. You

make the other person regret touching you."

Ethan leaned forward on the cold metal bleacher. That was not how he would

have explained it. Creating distance was often the safest, smartest option. Leaving a

bad situation was not cowardice; it was tactical awareness. But Mason’s lessons

required an enemy, conflict, and most importantly, an audience.

"I need someone for the demonstration."

The children uniformly lowered their eyes, none wanting to volunteer. Mason

smiled, his gaze scanning the rows.

"Walker."

Noah froze.

"Front and center."

Noah looked toward his father. Ethan gave him a reassuring nod, though a

familiar, cold uneasiness moved through his stomach—an instinct honed in places

far away from this suburban strip mall.

Noah walked onto the center of the mat. Beside the muscular, imposing Mason,

he looked even smaller and more fragile than usual. Mason took hold of the lapels

of Noah’s crisp white uniform.

"Here we have the typical unprepared target," he announced to the class. "Poor

balance. No confidence. No awareness."

A few children laughed nervously. Noah stared intensely at his bare feet.

Mason pulled him forward. The movement was sharp and unnecessarily rough.

Noah stumbled, struggling to keep upright.

Ethan stood halfway from his seat before forcing himself to sit back down. His