“Wouldn’t dream of moving,” I reply.
He steps back again.
I wait.
Count the seconds.
Track their breathing, their stance, the rhythm of their attention drifting and snapping back.
“Not disciplined enough,” I murmur quietly once they settle.
“What was that?” the second guard asks.
“I said your spacing’s off,” I reply.
He frowns.
“What?”
“You’re too far apart,” I continue, tilting my head slightly as if I’m just talking to pass the time. “Leaves a gap right through the middle.”
The first guard scoffs.
“You think we’re worried about you crossing that gap?”
“I think you’re not thinking about it,” I say.
He shifts his weight.
Just slightly.
“That’s all I needed,” I breathe under my breath.
I move.
Fast.
The restraint catches against the panel edge, already weakened from the repeated friction, and I drive my arms outward instead of pulling back, forcing the tension to spike across the compromised section.
It snaps.
Not clean.
But enough.
I surge forward before they can process it, my shoulder slamming into the first guard’s midsection, driving himbackward into the second before either of them can react properly.
“What the?—”
I don’t let him finish.
My elbow drives up under his chin, snapping his head back, and I follow through with a controlled strike to his throat, cutting off the rest of the sound.
The second guard recovers faster, swinging toward me, but I pivot inside his range, catching his arm and redirecting it downward.
“Easy,” I mutter. “You don’t want to do that.”
He struggles.
