She lunges forward, feinting high before dropping low for a takedown. I see it coming and sprawl, but she adjusts mid-motion, hooking her arm under my leg and using the leverage to topple me. We hit the ground together, a tangle of limbs on the weird vaguely squishy basketball court material.

  Kate tries to transition to a mount position, but I bridge my hips and roll, reversing our positions. For a moment, I have the advantage, my weight pinning her to the ground. But she doesn't panic, doesn't waste energy fighting against my leverage. Instead, she goes limp for a split second, then explodes upward when my guard relaxes, bucking me off.

  We scramble to our feet, both slightly winded but energized by the escalation. I won't pretend there isn't anything here. I wipe some sweat off my eyebrows.

  "Not bad for a rich girl," Kate says, wiping sweat from her brow.

  "Not bad for a fake corpse," I reply.

  Her eyes flash at that, a glimpse of the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. Good. I want her to feel something, anything, before she walks away and becomes someone else.

  We circle each other again, the pattern resetting. This time, I'm the one who initiates, throwing a combination designed to drive her back toward the basketball pole. She recognizes the strategy and pivots, refusing to be cornered.

  Her counterattack is swift - a front kick that forces me to block, followed by a series of quick jabs that keep me on the defensive. I weave and dodge, looking for an opening, but her guard is tight, her technique impeccable.

  "Where did you really learn all this?" I ask again, genuinely curious now. "This isn't just dojo stuff."

  Kate doesn't immediately answer, focused on maintaining pressure. Her fist grazes my cheek, and I taste the metallic tang of blood from a split lip. I respond with a hook that she partially blocks, the impact still solid enough to make her wince.

  "Everywhere," she says finally, between controlled breaths. "Jiu-jitsu at Chen's on Frankford. Kickboxing at Mighty Muay Thai. Aikido at that place next to the Acme." She throws another combination that I barely slip past. "Every place that would take cash and didn't ask questions. Every instructor who'd teach me something useful."

  I duck under a high kick, using the opening to close distance. "Must have cost a fortune."

  "Every cent I had," she confirms, stepping back to maintain spacing. "Every penny I earned from weird jobs. Every dollar I found, won, or..." She hesitates. "Liberated."

  "Liberated," I repeat, raising an eyebrow as we continue our dance. "That's what we're calling it now?"

  "You of all people don't get to judge me, Samantha." There's an edge to her voice now, the first crack in her composed exterior. "Not after everything."

  I see my opening - not physical, but emotional. I press forward, both with my attack and my words. "I'm not judging. I'm impressed. Dedicated."

  She scoffs, throwing a jab that I parry. "Don't patronize me."

  "I'm serious," I insist, catching her wrist and using her momentum to pull her off-balance. "All this time, I thought you were just... I don't know, hanging around. Being normal."

  Kate breaks my grip with a textbook escape, creating space between us again. "Because that's what you wanted to believe. That I was just sitting on my hands while you were out playing hero. I was doing this as Miss Mayfly, too, you just never cared to ask where I learned it from."

  "I never wanted this life for you," I say, blocking a kick aimed at my ribs. "Any of it."

  "It wasn't your choice to make," Kate replies, her voice tight with emotion. "It never was."

  I slip past her guard and land a solid hit to her solar plexus, not full force but enough to make her double over slightly. She recovers quickly, using the position to drive forward into a takedown that sends us both crashing to the ground again.

  This time, she secures the dominant position, her weight pressing me into the concrete, her forearm across my throat. Not pressing, just holding. A point made.

  "You always thought you knew what was best for me," she says, her face inches from mine, her breath coming in controlled pants. "Poor Kate, no mom, dad working himself to death. Gotta protect her, gotta make her decisions for her."

  I could break the hold if I wanted to. We both know it. But I let her talk, let her get it out.

  "I never asked for your protection," she continues, the pressure on my throat increasing slightly. "I asked for your respect. Your trust. Your - " She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.

  I use the hesitation to bridge and roll, reversing our positions in a smooth motion that surprises even me. Now I'm the one on top, my hands pinning her wrists to the concrete.

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  "My what, Kate?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  She turns her head away, refusing to meet my eyes. "It doesn't matter anymore."

  "It matters to me."

  For a moment, we're frozen in that position, the only sound our heavy breathing and the distant hum of the city. Then Kate meets my gaze, her eyes reflecting the dim streetlights.

  "No, it doesn't," she says quietly. "If it did, we wouldn't be here."

  Before I can respond, she executes a perfect escape, twisting her body and using leverage to break my grip. No matter how tight I grab, she just slips through me like mercury. We roll apart, both coming back to our feet in fighting stances.

  Kate wipes a bead of sweat from her brow, her eyes never leaving mine. "Round two?"

  I nod, tasting blood from my split lip, feeling my vascular system bloom to life in my blood sense, feeling the familiar heat of adrenaline in my veins. "Round two."

  This time, when we move, there's no hesitation. No more testing the waters. We crash together like waves against rock, each of us determined to make the other understand what words can't express.

  Kate's first combination lands hard - jab, cross, hook - connecting with my shoulder, chest, and ribs in rapid succession. The impacts vibrate through me, each one a dull thud that promises tomorrow's bruises. I counter with a flurry of my own, most glancing off her forearms as she blocks, but one breaking through to clip her jaw.

  "Pulling your punches, Small?" she taunts, spitting to the side.

  "Wouldn't want to damage the merchandise before you skip town," I shoot back, circling left.

  Her eyes flash, and she comes at me with renewed intensity. There's a fluidity to her movements that wasn't there before, a seamless transition between styles - the kickboxing from Mighty Muay Thai, the grappling from Chen's, all blended into something unique and dangerous.

  I duck under a high kick, no kiai, just a deep whoosh from her lungs, feeling the kick whoosh above my head. As I straighten, she's already on me, closing distance, getting inside my guard. Her elbow catches me in the temple, sending stars across my vision for a split second. Not enough to drop me, but enough to remind me this isn't sparring anymore.

  My response is instinctive - a short, sharp uppercut to her solar plexus that makes her grunt and step back. I press the advantage, throwing a combination I've drilled a hundred times with Multiplex: jab, cross, hook, uppercut. The first two she slips, the third grazes her shoulder, but the fourth connects solidly with her chin.

  Kate's head snaps back, and I see a thin trickle of blood from where her teeth caught her lower lip. The metallic scent hits my nostrils, and suddenly my blood sense blooms to life. Her vascular system appears like a glowing web in my mind's eye - throbbing carotid arteries, the pulsing network of capillaries just beneath the skin of her face, the stronger flow through her arms as adrenaline pumps through her system.

  It's not a game-changer, but it gives me a split-second edge. I can see the tension in her muscles before she moves, the way blood flow changes as she shifts weight, telegraphing her next strike.

  She notices my eyes tracking her movements with unnatural precision. "That's cheating," she mutters, wiping blood from her lip.

  "Can't turn it off," I reply, not breaking stance. "Comes with the territory."

  Kate's response is to shift tactics. Rather than straight strikes, she moves in for a clinch, grabbing the back of my neck and driving a knee toward my ribs. I block with my forearm, twisting to break her grip, but she transitions smoothly into a takedown attempt.

  We grapple at close range, a tangle of limbs and short, sharp strikes. Her elbow catches my ear; my forearm drives into her sternum. We're chest to chest, breath mingling, neither willing to give ground. I can feel her heart hammering against mine through our shirts, the rhythm slightly off-sync, creating a strange double-beat.

  "When did you get so good at this?" I grunt, straining against her hold.

  "When you weren't looking," she replies, her voice tight with exertion.

  She attempts to sweep my legs, but I counter, using her momentum to spin us both. For a moment, we're suspended in the motion, and then we crash to the ground together, rolling across the court in a desperate struggle for dominance.

  Kate ends up on top, straddling my waist, her hands pinning my shoulders. Her face is inches from mine, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. Her lip is still bleeding, smearing a thin line of red across her chin. My blood sense shows me everything - the thrumming pulse in her neck, the quick expansion and contraction of capillaries with each breath, the subtle shifts as her body processes the adrenaline surge.

  I could throw her off if I wanted to. We both know it. But for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

  Then she exhales sharply, her breath warm against my face, and says, "You've been holding out on me, Shark Week."

  Then, she leans in, close enough that I get the vague impression she's going to kiss me, before she breathes out a puff of something invisible and smelly.

  It hits me like a truck - not pepper spray or anything painful, but something that makes my head swim and my limbs feel momentarily leaden. She shoves me off, scrambling to her feet while I blink away the disorientation.

  "That's definitely cheating," I mutter, pushing myself upright, the basketball court swimming beneath me.

  "All's fair," Kate responds, settling back into a fighting stance. Her eyes are locked on mine, gauging the effect of whatever she just dosed me with. There's a hint of concern there, but it's buried under determination.

  The wooziness fades in seconds - whatever it was wasn't meant to incapacitate, just create an opening. Maybe carbon monoxide? Something to momentarily mess with my oxygen levels?

  "What was that?" I ask, rolling my shoulders to check my coordination. Everything seems to be working again.

  "Just a little something I picked up," she says vaguely. "Nothing permanent."

  We circle each other again, both more cautious now, knowing what the other is capable of. The blood trickle from Kate's lip has mostly stopped, but my blood sense still gives me her vascular map, highlighting the network of vessels beneath her skin. I can see her pulse quicken when she's about to move, the subtle shifts in blood pressure as she tenses different muscle groups. Just a little something I picked up.

  This time, I'm the one who initiates, throwing a feint to her head before dropping low for a takedown of my own, but she steps in close and gets her arms under my armpits, slamming her head into my shoulderblade with enough force to knock the wind out of me.

  She tries to wrench my arm into a lock, but I roll out of it, throwing myself to the court while she backs away, not wanting her wrist dislocated from a sparring match. When we separate, my palm is bleeding from a small cut where it dragged across the uneven surface.

  Kate's eyes lock onto the blood, then flick back to my face. "You okay?"

  "Takes more than a scraped hand," I reply, flexing my fingers. Already I can feel the skin knitting itself back together, the slow, warm itch of accelerated healing.

  She nods, resetting her stance. "Ready for more?"