“Because it buys you time.”
His tone is controlled, and I have no problem seeing him teach this to teammates.
“I’ll show you.” He stands and offers his hand.
Frowning slightly, I take it.
When I’m standing, close enough that I feel the heat of him, he releases his grip on me.
“Like before, I want you to do exactly what I do.”
He adjusts his stance—knees bent, weight centered, shoulders angled slightly.
Not aggressive. Not passive. Just…aware.
I try to mimic him, feeling slightly awkward.
He smiles softly. “Good. Now—why does this matter? Because in a tense situation, most people expect fear, expect you to shrink. Cry. Freeze. Maybe even beg.”
He holds my gaze, steady and grounding. “When you reflect back their stance, their look, you break the pattern. Their brain stalls—just long enough for you to breathe, to think, to act. If you don’t have a weapon, time is your weapon.”
I exhale shakily. “Feels like a trick.” Much like some that my father taught me. But I didn’t learn this from him.
“It is.” His agreement is simply stated. “A good one.”
I swallow. “So…I just copy them?”
“Don’t mock them. Don’t exaggerate.” He shakes his head. “Match their posture. Their angle. Their readiness. You’re telling them without a word: You aren’t the only threat in this room.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
“And if I’m scared?”
“Do it anyway.” His voice is a rasp now, almost a whisper. “Fear isn’t the enemy. Freezing is.”
He steps closer, close enough that I feel his breath warm against my cheek. “Remember this: Mirror them, Allie. Always mirror.”
I nod.
“It buys you time. Now say it back to me so I know you’ve got it.”
“Mirror them… Always mirror.”
He moves the coffee table out of the way, then steps back half a pace. After resetting, he drops into a posture that makes my pulse trip—shoulders squared, stance widened, chin angled down just slightly. Not threatening.
But ready.
A man evaluating threat distance.
“Don’t think. Just mirror.”
With a breath, I angle my shoulders. Shift my weight. Then I drop my knees a fraction.
His eyes flick down my form, slow and assessing. “Good. Now—watch.”
He moves again. A sharper adjustment—hips turning forty-five degrees, one foot stepping back, jaw tightening, like he’s preparing to advance.
I copy him, delayed by a beat. Late and sloppier than I’d like.
