Chapter 4

With the studentsarrayed before him like soldiers at attention, Dan stood at the front, his electrician"s hands now guiding these hopefuls in a different kind of circuitry.

"Let"s start!" Dan"s command was crisp, and the class responded with a spirited "Yes, Sir!"

As part of the introduction, Dan asked each student to share their name. He paid particular attention when the new girl in shockingly pristine workout attire introduced herself as Emma, making a mental note to ensure she felt welcomed and engaged.

Dan then took a few minutes to explain the basics of self-defense, emphasizing the importance of building stamina and strength. "Today, we"ll start with some warm-up exercises to get our bodies ready," he explained. "It"s crucial not just to learn the moves but to build the physical capability to perform them effectively."

He continued, outlining the philosophy behind their training. "Rule number one: the best fight is the one you can avoid. Always walk with purpose—straight, head up, gut pulled in. Be aware of your surroundings, and if you sense danger, call for help or run. If escape isn"t an option, then I want you to fight, and I want you to fight hard."

Dan scanned the class, noting who was limber and who might need extra attention. When his attention landed on Emma, he couldn"t help the small twitch of amusement. She was out of place against the sweat and grime of the gym, her clothes hinting at never having faced the rigors of physical exertion.

Emma"s attempts at the warm-up exercises revealed her lack of conditioning—her balance wavered with each leg raise, her breaths came in short gasps, and her arms trembled slightly with the effort. A smirk found its way to Dan"s face, witnessing the telltale signs of a beginner"s struggle.

Dan shifted the class into higher gear, leading them through a sequence that tested their agility and stamina. He started with high knees, pumping his legs one after the other, quickly bringing his knees up to waist level as if running from an invisible foe. His feet thudded against the mat, a rhythmic beat that spurred the class to match his pace.

Next, he transitioned to shadow boxing, his fists slicing the air with precision. He threw jabs, hooks, and uppercuts at an opponent only he could see. His demonstration was a blur of motion, showcasing the power and control of practice. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, prickling the skin.

Shuffle steps followed, Dan moving side to side, his feet tapping the ground lightly, beckoning his students to keep up. He made it look effortless, his body swaying with boxer"s grace as he drilled footwork into their muscle memory.

With every move, he glanced over the class, his eyes pausing on Emma. Her focus was commendable, but her form needed work—her high knees lacked rhythm, her shadow boxing was hesitant, and her shuffle steps were uncoordinated.

He suppressed a sneer as old defensiveness flared up within him—satisfaction in seeing the upper echelons fumble in an arena where wealth and status bought no advantage. He could almost hear the silent cheers of his younger self, vindicated by the sight of the mighty momentarily humbled.

Yet, with every repetition, she showed a flicker of improvement, her determination to master the movements clear in the earnest furrow of her brow. Dan recognized that spark—the beginning of transformation.

His smirk transformed into a genuine smile when he realized the challenges of a newcomer. It was not a taunt but an acknowledgment of the journey ahead for her. For a fleeting second, he reveled in the pure, unadulterated effort it would take to transform her from a clean slate to a warrior. This was the kind of transformation he respected most.

He caught the determined set of her jaw, the way she pushed on, despite stumbling. A reluctant respect for the newbie sparked as if he had cut into live electrical wire. Dan knew the grind of physical labor, the value of an honest day"s work, and the resilience it bred.

The warm-up ended, and Dan oversaw the group. Their recovery was as noticeable as their fatigue. Emma, in her impeccable outfit now damp with effort, fumbled with her water bottle. Her eyes were on Dan as he called out the next set of exercises.

He cleared his throat, calling the group"s attention. "Alright, let"s get into some kickboxing drills," he announced, grounding his feet on the mat"s firm surface, feeling its grip on his bare toes. Dan demonstrated a lead hook punch with a sharp exhalation, the motion fluid from years of practice.

"Keep your elbow level, pivot on the ball of your foot," he instructed, watching as the class followed.

Emma attempted the punch, her focus intense, the awkward swing betraying her inexperience. She was all concentration, her arm swinging wide, not quite refined execution but brimming with determination. After a moment"s hesitation, she reset her stance and tried again, her elbow better aligned, her pivot still uncertain but improving.

Dan"s initial amusement at her struggle turned inward, stirring a memory of his own first clumsy punches thrown in a similar gym years ago. The room was filled with grunts and gloves slapped against bags, the air thick with determination—Emma"s included. Watching her, Dan felt a thread of admiration weave through his earlier judgment. Here was an effort, raw and unpolished, worthy of respect.

* * *

Emma glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, wondering how many minutes were left in class. She was used to marathon surgeries, demanding unwavering focus and physical stamina, but this—this relentless physical exertion was a different beast altogether. Her breath came in short, heavy bursts, reminding her of patients with severe asthma, not the controlled breathing of a leading heart surgeon.

She watched the trainer, who was precise and powerful, and tried to emulate the punch he demonstrated. Her own attempt was clumsy; she felt every misaligned motion. Her wide arc was a clear sign of her novice status. But she didn"t let that deter her. She squared her shoulders, tightened her core, and threw another punch, her body struggling to absorb the rhythm and finesse required. It was a battle of wills, her mental acumen against her untrained body, but she was no stranger to challenges. With each reset of her feet, each new pivot, she edged closer to getting it right, her resolve as sharp as a scalpel in an operating room.

Emma"s focus sharpened as the trainer called out the next exercise. "Next up, we"re doing a roundhouse kick," he said, demonstrating a fluid motion that seemed to slice the air. "Remember, it"s all about the pivot of the supporting foot and the whip of your leg."

Emma nodded along with the other students, mirroring the trainer as they all rotated on their supporting legs. She tried to emulate the smooth arc of his roundhouse kick. Her leg felt heavy and uncooperative, but she refused to show her struggle. She kept her gaze fixed on the trainer, trying to capture every nuance of his form.

"And break! Now, front kicks—drive with the ball of your foot," he continued, snapping his leg out in front of him with an ease that Emma envied.

She let out a breath she didn"t realize she was holding and drove her foot forward. The impact was less than graceful, more push than snap, but she persisted, throwing kick after kick. Each movement was a silent conversation between her and her body, a debate of coordination and will.

"Shake it out," the trainer said after several sets, rotating his arms in large, loose circles. "Keep those arms moving."

Following suit, she tried to ignore the burn in her muscles as she copied the arm circles. She found a rhythm in the motion, a temporary respite from the intensity of the kicks. Her arms swung in wide loops, her joints protesting quietly with each rotation, but the movement brought relief.

"Good work," the trainer said, locking eyes with her. "Keep pushing through."

Emma offered a tight-lipped smile, a wordless thank you, as she prepared for the next round of drills, her determination unwavering despite her fatigue.

The buzz of energy and satisfaction hummed through the gym as the kickboxing class lined up at the end of the session. Sweat traced the determination on each participant"s face, showing the work they poured into their training. Emma stood among them, the flush of exertion heating her cheeks as she joined the line. Her own satisfaction mingled with the shared sense of achievement around her. The trainer"s eyes met each of theirs in turn, an unspoken exchange of respect for the shared grind they"d just endured.

"Any injuries?" he asked, scanning the row of students for any signs of discomfort. A chorus of "no" followed, and they repeated the greeting they had started with, bringing their hands together in a gesture of respect.

One by one, they walked past the trainer, giving him a respectful nod and a soft boxing. Emma watched the silent but powerful exchange of respect and camaraderie as she waited.

As her turn came, she raised her chin, feeling a wave of fulfillment wash over her. The exhaustion was there, a weight on her limbs, but it was worthwhile evidence of her effort and resilience. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smoothed out her shirt, and took her place in front of the trainer.

The trainer"s acknowledgment felt like a badge of honor, a nod to her hidden reserves of strength. She returned the respectful gesture they had been taught, feeling a rush of warmth and satisfaction at pushing through the class.

Emma"s stride carried a bounce of achievement as she crossed the gym to the women"s locker room. She tugged her sleeves down, straightening the fabric with a crisp snap. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, less from the joy of exertion and more from the proof of her resilience. She lifted her chin, feeling the space around her neck, and nodded to herself, acknowledging the quiet pride swelling inside her.

The praise of her efforts echoed in her mind, less from others and more from the internal echo of "well done". Her gaze lingered on the emptying space of the gym, the mats that had been her proving ground, and she allowed herself a moment to relish the triumph, her breaths deep and unhurried, filling her with gratifying warmth. Emma"s walk was unforced, a natural claim of space that was her right, the right of someone who had endured and emerged stronger.

Emma was just a few steps from the cool shadow of the locker room promising rest, when an unexpected weight on her shoulder spun her into alarm. Her breath hitched, a high-pitched note of surprise piercing the hum of departing classmates. The world narrowed to that touch, the strong grip frightening her. It was a harbinger of the dangers she thought she"d sweat out on the mats.

She turned sharply, her instincts tense, her eyes wide and searching for the threat. Her trainer stood there, hands raised in peace. The lines on his face softened to ease the tension he"d caused. There was no easing of the adrenaline rush. Her heart slammed against her ribs as if trying to break free. Despite her flushed skin, a chill swept over her, clenching her muscles and clouding her thoughts.

The panic, once a roaring fire, dimmed to embers as she took a cautious step back, her gaze fixed on his. As the initial shock of contact faded, so did the fear. Her hands shook, and she fought the tightness in her chest with deep, steady breaths.

"I"m sorry, I didn"t want to startle you," he said, his voice laced with distress.

She swallowed and nodded.

"Well done. I hope I see you next week," he added before turning away. His retreat was marked by reluctance. His shoulders drooped slightly, a stark contrast to his energy moments before.

Emma watched him go, her emotions twisted, and for some reason she wanted to cry.