Isla moved through it like she had rehearsed his exact sequence a thousand times. She sidestepped the punch, catching his ankle lightly with her palm as the kick came around, lifting it just a fraction of an inch higher than his center of gravity could handle.
Tyson went down hard, landing on his back with a heavy thud that echoed off the mirrored walls.
Isla didn’t celebrate. She didn’t stand over him and gloat. She simply stepped back into a perfect guard position, her breathing completely even. The dog tags at her collar caught the fluorescent light.
The silence in the room was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop.
Evan, the boy who had told her to go to ballet class, was staring with his mouth slightly open. The younger kids were wide-eyed.
Sensei Calder stepped forward, his eyes locked on Isla with profound respect. He didn’t ask where she got her belt. He didn’t ask why she was there. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
Tyson scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and awe. He raised his hands, completely out of aggression. He had been entirely outclassed, not by strength, but by absolute mastery.
Isla stood perfectly still, waiting.
Tyson looked at Evan, looked at Calder, and finally looked back at the small 11-year-old girl standing in front of him.
He swallowed hard, stepping forward. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t sneer.
