She wished she had not.
Ryan sat up.
His face was red.
The room waited.
Naomi extended a hand.
“Good?”
Ryan stared at it.
Then stood without taking it.
“That was one position.”
Naomi lowered her hand.
“Yes.”
“I slipped.”
“Maybe.”
“You caught me moving forward.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the students.
Then back.
“Again.”
Naomi shook her head.
“No.”
Ryan laughed.
It came out sharper than he intended.
“What?”
“We did the drill.”
“We’re done.”
“It was eleven seconds.”
Naomi nodded.
“Yes.”
“So reset.”
“No.”
Ryan looked toward Elena.
“You serious?”
Elena had been watching the entire exchange.
She looked at Naomi.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Ryan?”
He frowned.
“I’m fine.”
Elena nodded.
“Then the demo is over.”
Ryan stared at her.
“Come on.”
Elena’s voice changed.
“Ryan.”
That was enough.
He stepped away.
Naomi picked up the water bottle she had left near the wall.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody cheered.
No one needed to.
Ryan had not been knocked unconscious.
He had not been humiliated by some impossible martial-arts trick.
He had simply made an assumption.
Then committed too much to it.
And eleven seconds had been enough to expose both mistakes.
What almost nobody in Atlas Combat Academy understood yet was that Naomi Carter had spent most of the last six years trying to make sure nobody ever looked at her like this again.
Not impressed.
Not curious.
Not afraid.
She had come to Atlas hoping to disappear.
Ryan had just made that impossible.
Naomi had not planned to train that night.
She had planned to watch.
That was important.
Her younger sister, Mia, had been asking to join a martial-arts gym for almost four months.
Mia was seventeen.
High-school senior.
Five-foot-two.
Sharp tongue.
Excellent grades.
Absolutely no interest in being protected by her older sister.
That last part had created several arguments.
Mia had begun working evenings at a coffee shop near South End.
Most nights she finished around nine.
The walk from the café to employee parking took less than four minutes.
Still, their mother worried.
Mia hated the worrying more than the walk.
One evening she said:
“I want to learn something.”
Their mother asked:
“Like what?”
“Self-defense.”
Naomi looked up from her laptop.
“What kind?”
Mia stared.
“The kind where somebody bothers me and I don’t die.”
Naomi closed the laptop.
“That is not a martial art.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
Their mother, Denise Carter, pointed toward Naomi.
“Your sister can teach you.”
Mia immediately shook her head.
“No.”
Naomi almost smiled.
“Correct answer.”
Denise frowned.
“Why?”
Mia pointed.
“Because she turns everything into a lecture.”
“I do not.”
Naomi said.
Mia stared at her.
Naomi sighed.
“Okay.”
Mia continued:
“And because I want somewhere with other people.”
That part Naomi understood.
Training with family changed everything.
Corrections felt personal.
Frustration followed you home.
A bad round could sit across from you at breakfast.
Naomi asked:
“What are you looking at?”
Mia showed her several gyms.
Kickboxing.
Brazilian jiu-jitsu.
MMA.
A women’s self-defense studio.