Maya looked down at Marcus. She released the lock, letting his arm drop. She didn't gloat. She didn't smile. She simply turned and walked back to the edge of the mat, stepping carefully over the puddle she had originally come to clean.

Maya calmly slipped her thick socks and heavy work boots back on. She picked up the damp towel, squeezed the excess water into the bucket, and resumed wiping down the edge of the mat. She moved methodically, exactly as she had every night for the past two years.

Marcus remained on the floor, clutching his neck, his face a mask of humiliation and fury. He looked around at his students. None of them were looking at him with the reverence they usually did. They were looking at him with pity, and worse—they were looking at Maya with absolute awe.

"Class dismissed," Marcus rasped, struggling to his feet. "Get out. All of you."

The students hurriedly gathered their gear, whispering frantically to one another as they rushed out the doors. Only Leo remained, hovering near the locker room.

Once the dojo was empty, Marcus turned to Maya, who was now mopping the far corner of the room. He marched over to her, grabbing the handle of the mop to stop her.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice shaking.

Maya looked at him, then at his hand on her mop. She gently but firmly pried his fingers off the handle. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small notepad and pen she kept for communication, and wrote swiftly.

She held the pad up.

I am the janitor. The floor is still dirty.

Marcus slapped the notepad out of her hand. "Don't play games with me! Where did you learn to move like that? Who is your master?"

Maya bent down, picked up the notepad, and wrote again.

My father. Okinawa. Before the fever took my hearing.

Marcus stared at the words. Okinawa. The birthplace of karate. "Why are you here? Scrubbing floors? If you have those skills..."

Maya wrote one final sentence and handed him the paper, before picking up her bucket.