The second pass is faster. Harris crowds Mason’s space, closing the distance too aggressively. Mason adjusts, pivots, and gets the hold anyway. It takes longer than it normally would, but he keeps it controlled, then releases on the count.
“Again.”
By the third run, Mason’s breathing has changed. He’s bracing now, conserving energy where he can, and Harris is smiling like this is entertaining for him. I glance at the instructor. His arms are folded, watching closely but not intervening.
The fourth pass starts rough. The initial collision is sharper, shoulder-to-shoulder, and more force than the drill calls for. Mason stumbles, recovers, and keeps moving.He almost has it under control when Harris brings his elbow up.
The point of contact is ugly, and Mason’s head snaps sideways with the impact.
It’s a sharp, hollow sound echoing off the walls. He drops down on one knee, one hand braced on the mat, the other instinctively coming up to his face.
“Hold,” the instructor says, belatedly, and the room goes silent. Mason stays where he is for a few minutes, breathing through his nose, his shoulders rising and falling in a careful rhythm. When he looks up, there’s already swelling beneath his eye, the red deepening fast under the harsh lights.
“That was unnecessary,” the instructor says, tone flat.
“Momentum,” Harris says, shrugging.
“What the fuck was that?” I hear myself almost shout, the words cutting across the room sharper than I intended. Heads turn, and the instructor looks at me for the first time; his expression is unreadable.
“Stand down, Varrik,” he says.
“I’m asking what that was,” I say, already stepping forward. I stop myself before I cross the mat, but it’s close. Too close. “That wasn’t part of the drill.”
The instructor looks at me, his brows raised. “You’re running this now?”
“Might as well. You aren’t running shit.”
Mason pushes himself upright slowly, still not looking at anyone. “I’m fine,” he says, voice steady.
The instructor’s gaze flicks to him. “You good to continue?”
“Yes,” Mason says, hesitating for a few seconds.
That’s enough for the instructor. “Switch partners.” Harris steps away without comment, and Mason rotates.
He’s paired again and again with people who don’t quite pull their weight back when they should. There’s nothing as blatant as the elbow. Extra force here, late releases there, and holds that linger longer than necessary.
“Watch your timing,” the instructor says at one point, after someone else botches an entry and Mason compensates to keep it from falling apart. Mason nods, adjusts, and takes it.
By the time they reach the grappling sequences, the bruise under his eye is dark and he’s favouring one side slightly now. It’s subtle enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.
I’m absolutely looking for it.
On one rotation, a lad hooks Mason’s leg and drives him down harder than required. Mason hits the mat with a sharp exhale; the air is knocked clean from his lungs, and the release comes late again.
“Enough,” I say, louder this time. The room goes quiet in a different way.
The instructor turns fully toward me. “You want to step outside?”
“Sure,” I say. My voice is controlled slightly better now, but it takes effort. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”
There’s a second of silence, then the instructor looks back at Mason. “Reset.”
The drill continues cleaner now, superficially. There are no more blatant strikes, no more elbows, but the damage is already done.
Mason’s movements have tightened, the efficiency sharpened to the point of rigidity. He’s compensating for pain by reducing every margin he can.
When the session finally ends, the dismissal is brisk. People break off into small groups, stretching, talking, and avoiding looking too closely at Mason’s face. He moves to the edge of the mat and sits, elbows on his knees, head slightly bowed as he steadies his breathing.
