"Did you tell him again?"
"No," Ethan said, his voice carrying the bitter, familiar shame of a teenage boy trying to survive in an environment he didn't yet understand. "I didn't want to keep whining. If you keep complaining, people think you're soft. They stop wanting to train with you."
Standing on the edge of the mat now, Angela looked at Ryan Cole as he stepped into the center circle, rolling his shoulders and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
"Whenever you're ready, ma'am," Ryan said, offering a polite, casual bow.
Angela stepped onto the smooth mat surface, her posture grounded and heavy. She didn't return the flashy bounce; she simply bowed, lowered her center of gravity, and met Ryan in the center.
"Round one. Two minutes," Michael called out, his timer in hand. "Fight."
Ryan moved with fluid, elegant motion, reaching out with light, testing hand grips toward Angela's wrists. He was clearly trying to gauge her, intending to perform a gentle sweep to take her down without hurting her.
But as Ryan’s hand clamped around her right sleeve, Angela didn't pull back or panic. Instead, she rotated her forearm inward with precise, mechanical leverage, breaking his grip instantly before he could anchor his weight. The break was so sharp and efficient that Ryan’s hand snapped backward in mid-air.
A subtle shift occurred in Ryan’s eyes. The patronizing smirk flickered. He stepped in again, faster this time, reaching for a deep collar tie to control her head.
Angela anticipated the angle. Rather than fighting his strength, she stepped inside his foot positioning, using an effortless hip frame to redirect his momentum. Ryan found himself off-balance, stumbling forward two paces before catching himself. The silence in the room deepened. The students watching near the mirrors stopped whispering.
Ryan's ego flared. He circled quickly, dropping low to shoot for a double-leg takedown—not at full force, but with enough speed to end the exchange quickly.
Angela's reaction was instantaneous. Her hips drove backward in a textbook, stone-wall sprawl. Her entire weight dropped directly over Ryan’s shoulder line, crushing his posture into the mat. She didn't just defend the entry; she controlled his neck with a tight, framing arm, nullifying his ability to turn into her or drive forward.
Ryan grunted under the unexpected pressure, his knees pinned to the canvas. He tried to scramble free, but every movement he made was met with an immediate, weight-distributed counter-pressure that trapped his hips.
"Thirty seconds," Michael called out, his voice tinged with sheer disbelief.