He had heard that answer before.
Years ago.
From someone else.
A fighter who had disappeared from the competitive circuit without explanation.
Marcus couldn't remember the name.
But he remembered the style.
It was strange.
Precise.
Efficient.
Almost impossible to predict.
He looked at Amara again.
"Your father was a fighter?"
"He was."
"What style?"
She smiled faintly.
"He didn't believe styles mattered."
Marcus frowned.
"Everyone has a style."
"My father disagreed."
Then she stepped off the mat.
"I should probably leave."
Marcus stopped her.
"No."
She turned.
"You wanted an evaluation."
"I did."
"You got one."
Marcus shook his head.
"No."
He looked at Daniel.
Then at the students.
Then back at Amara.
"I want another."
This time, the room understood.
Marcus Kane was interested.
And that changed everything.
By the following Saturday, the video had already spread.
Someone had recorded Amara's sparring session.
The footage was short.
Only thirty-seven seconds.
But it showed enough.
A tiny young woman calmly dismantling a larger black belt without throwing a single hard strike.
The clip was uploaded to social media.
By Monday morning, it had been viewed over three hundred thousand times.
By Tuesday, it had passed one million.
People argued about it.
Some said the video was staged.
Others claimed Daniel had been instructed not to fight seriously.
Some called Amara a prodigy.
Others called her lucky.
Then someone found Marcus's old tournament footage.
People began comparing the two fighters.
That was when the questions started.
Who was Amara Lewis?
Where had she trained?
Who was her father?
Why had she never competed?
And why did Marcus Kane look so uncomfortable whenever anyone mentioned Samuel Lewis?
Amara ignored the attention.
She continued training.
Every morning before class, she arrived early.
She cleaned the mats.
She stretched.
She trained alone.
Marcus watched from his office.
He noticed something unusual.
Amara never asked him for praise.
She never posted videos.
She never bragged.
She didn't care about followers.
She cared about improvement.
One morning, Marcus approached her.
"You've been doing that kick incorrectly."
Amara looked up.
"Which part?"
"The pivot."
She repeated it.
Marcus shook his head.
"You're locking your knee."
Amara tried again.
"Better."
She nodded.
"Thank you."
Marcus watched her.
"You don't argue."
"About what?"
"Corrections."
"Why would I?"
"Most people do."
"My father taught me that if someone can show me something I don't know, I should listen."
Marcus smiled.
"Your father sounds wise."
"He was."
A pause.
Then Amara asked:
"Why did you know his name?"
Marcus's smile disappeared.
"I didn't."
"You hesitated."
Marcus looked away.
"I've heard it before."
"Where?"
"Competitions."
Amara studied him.
"Did you know him?"
Marcus didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
She walked away.
Marcus watched her go.
He had spent seventeen years trying to forget Samuel Lewis.
It wasn't working anymore.
Samuel had been one of the best fighters Marcus had ever seen.
Not the strongest.
Not the biggest.
The smartest.
Samuel could read movement before it happened.
He could turn an opponent's aggression against them.
He had a reputation for never hurting people unnecessarily.
Marcus had fought him once.
Only once.
It had been twelve years earlier.
Marcus was twenty-four.
He was undefeated.
Samuel was thirty-one.