The gym fell into a dead, suffocating silence. A white belt challenging the three kings of Vanguard was unheard of. It was suicide.

Marcus’s face flushed red with anger. The veins in his thick neck bulged. "Alright," he growled. "You want a lesson? We'll give you a lesson. Coach!"

Coach Henderson walked over, looking weary but resigned. He knew Elena's background—he had been sworn to secrecy, asked only to provide her a space to train without fanfare. He looked at the three arrogant champions and sighed.

"Shark tank rules," Marcus demanded. "King of the mat. One minute rounds. Continuous flow. We all get a piece."

"Are you okay with this, Elena?" Coach Henderson asked gently.

Elena nodded, tightening her belt. "One minute rounds are fine. Though I doubt we'll need that long."

The sheer audacity of the statement drew gasps from the onlookers. Jaxson spat on the side of the mat. Julian smiled a predatory smile. Marcus cracked his knuckles, sounding like breaking walnuts.

The rules were set. The rest of the class cleared the center mat, forming a wide circle. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Everyone expected a massacre. Everyone expected the new woman to be carried out on a stretcher.

They were right about the massacre. They were just wrong about the victim.

Marcus stepped to the center of the mat. He outweighed Elena by at least one hundred pounds. He looked like a mountain preparing to crush a sapling.

Elena stepped up to him, adopting a relaxed, upright judo stance. Her hands were loose, her feet shoulder-width apart.

"I'm gonna make you cry," Marcus whispered.

"Time!" shouted Coach Henderson.

Marcus didn't wait. Relying on his massive size advantage, he lunged forward like a runaway freight train, throwing his massive arms out to collar-tie Elena and drag her violently to the mat. He wanted to crush her instantly.

But Elena wasn't there.

In a fraction of a second, her footwork shifted. As Marcus’s hands reached for her neck, Elena stepped deeply inside his guard. She didn't resist his forward momentum; she borrowed it. Her left hand shot up, gripping his lapel, while her right arm hooked tightly under his massive armpit.