He releases me.
“Again.”
He comes at me faster. A straight jab toward my ribs.
I shift back automatically.
He stops immediately.
“See that?” His eyes drift to my feet. “You give up space before you have to. You retreat before you’re hit.”
He steps in again.
“This time you don’t move unless you need to.”
He lunges.
I hold my ground and knock his arm aside. My injured wrist throbs inside the brace, but I stay planted.
He nods once.
“Better.”
He circles me slowly.
“You don’t need to be like me.” His voice lowers. “You don’t need to enjoy it. You don’t need to crave it.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“But you need to switch.”
He strikes low toward my hip.
I pivot and drive the knife toward his side.
He catches my forearm and redirects it, letting the blade pass harmlessly by.
“Let the anger guide you.” He keeps hold of my arm. “Use it. It sharpens you.”
He shoves me back hard enough that I have to step to keep my balance.
“But don’t let it blind you. Blind anger swings wide. It chases. It overcommits.”
He moves again, quick, forcing me to react.
I don’t step back this time.
I step in.
I close the distance and press the knife toward his throat. He grabs my wrist mid motion and stops it inches from his skin.
We stand there, breathing hard.
“That,” he says quietly, “is fight.”
He releases me.
“Your body’s going to want to run.” He holds my gaze. “Override it.”
