Elena didn't flinch. Her expression never shifted. She uncrossed her arms, slowly walked down the aisle, and approached the edge of the mat. With deliberate, unhurried movements, she stepped out of her sneakers, placed them neatly together on the floor, and climbed through the ropes. She didn't say a single word.
Marcus chuckled, tossing the microphone away. He bounced on the balls of his feet, circling her with his hands held high in a mocking, exaggerated guard.
"Nice outfit," Marcus sneered, looking her up and down. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll go easy on you. I don't want to break you in front of all these people."
Elena stood entirely relaxed. Her hands rested loosely at her sides. Her feet were shoulder-width apart. To the untrained eye, she looked completely defenseless.
Marcus lunged. He threw a fast, looping overhand right, intended to be a blinding show of his speed—a strike meant to stop an inch from her nose and make her flinch for the cameras.
To the six hundred people in the stands, the punch was a blur. To Elena, it was a slow-motion mistake. It was telegraphed in his shoulders, broadcasted by his hips, and completely devoid of grounding.
In a movement so fluid it defied the eyes, Elena simply wasn't there anymore. She stepped inside his guard, slipping the punch by a fraction of a millimeter. She didn't throw a strike. Instead, she gently placed her fingers on Marcus’s extended wrist, redirecting his own massive, violent momentum. Simultaneously, she tapped the back of his ankle with a swift sweep of her leg.