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“Everyone does at first. Fighting isn't natural until you train it.” I step closer, adjusting her position. “Think of it like dancing. There's a rhythm to it.”

I move to stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my presence without us actually touching. "Let your body flow with the movement." I demonstrate the combination again, letting her watch my reflection in the mirrored wall. "Jab-cross. Jab-cross. See how my weight shifts?"

She nods, determination setting her jaw as she tries again. This time, her hips rotate with the punch, generating more power.

“There you go. Now faster.”

Vesper falls into a rhythm, her movements becoming more fluid with each repetition. The hesitation melts away, replaced by a focused intensity that transforms her face. She's a quick study, adapting and improving with minimal instruction.

After several minutes, a sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead, her breathing slightly labored but controlled. There's a new energy radiating from her, something primal and fierce that wasn't there before.

“How does it feel?” I ask, watching her reflection in the mirror.

A smile curls at the corner of her mouth. “Good. Really good.”

“Want to try hitting something besides air?”

I retrieve the focus mitts from a nearby shelf and slip them on. “Same combination, but this time with a target.” I hold up the padded mitts. “Don't pull your punches. Hit them like you mean it.”

Vesper's first hit lands with surprising force, the impact reverberating up my arm. Her second follows immediately, more powerful than the first. She intensifies with each strike, her technique improving in real time.

"That's it," I encourage, moving the targets to different positions. "Jab-cross, jab-cross. Now add a hook."

She pivots, throwing her weight into a left hook that lands with a satisfying smack against the mitt. A sound escapes her—part growl, part breathless triumph.

“Again,” she says, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

We settle into a rhythm, the steady beat of her fists echoing through the small space. With each combination, her movements sharpen, confidence building as her body finds its flow. I push the pace, calling out combos quicker, shifting the mitts unexpectedly to force her to adapt.

“Hook-cross-uppercut,” I call.

She hits each mark, and the final uppercut nearly catches me off guard.

“Damn,” I say, grinning. “You’re a natural.”

Vesper's smile is radiant, her cheeks flushed with exertion and something that looks like pride. “It feels...” she searches for the word, “empowering.”

“That's the point,” I tell her, lowering the mitts. “Knowledge is power. Knowing you can defend yourself can mean the difference between being a survivor or victim.”

“I’m done being the victim.”

“Good,” I say, tossing the mitts aside. “Because that's exactly what I want to hear.”

Her eyes gleam with newfound determination with a spark that wasn't there before. She pushes her damp hair away from her face, her breathing still slightly elevated from the workout.

“Show me more,” she says, not a request but a demand.

I move closer, circling her like a boxing coach. “Let's work on your defense. Knowing how to throw a punch is important, but knowing how to avoid one is even more crucial.”

I demonstrate a basic slip, moving my head to the side as if dodging an incoming jab. "The goal is to use minimal movement for maximum effect. Conserve energy. Make them miss by inches, not feet."

Vesper mirrors my movement. I can see her cataloging each move, storing it away like ammunition for future use.

“Now,” I continue, “if someone grabs you from behind?—”

Before I can finish explaining, the door to the gym swings open. Z stands in the doorway, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The tribal tattoos covering his chest and arms seem to shift in the harsh lighting as he crosses his arms.

“So this is where you disappeared to,” he says to Vesper.