The gym was dead silent. The heavy bags stopped swinging. The music seemed to have faded into nonexistence. The fighters, the meatheads, the young phenoms—they were frozen into statues, their mouths hanging open. The guy recording on his phone had dropped it, oblivious to the cracked screen on the floor.
Seven seconds. It had taken a forty-eight-year-old cleaning lady exactly seven seconds to dismantle the regional champion.
Marcus rolled over, clutching his elbow to his chest, his face pale and slick with a cold sweat. He looked up at Elena, not with arrogance, but with the primal terror of prey that had just narrowly survived an encounter with an apex predator.
Coach Miller, having heard the slam from his office, stood frozen in the doorway. He stared at Elena, his eyes drifting down to the specific, technical perfection of her stance.
"Elena..." Miller whispered, a dawning realization washing over his face. "That grip... you're... you're Elena Volkov."
Elena didn't look at the coach. She walked over to her shoes, slipped them onto her bare feet, and tied them meticulously.
She walked out of the cage, parting the sea of dumbstruck fighters who instinctively backed away, giving her a wide berth of profound respect. She put her arm around Leo, who was staring at his mother as if she had just descended from Mount Olympus.
"Come, Leo," Elena said softly, picking up her broken mop handle with her free hand. "We need to get some ice for that eye."