The heavy bag was already hanging when she walked in.

New matting on the floor. Weapons rack organized. Lights brighter than usual.

Slade stood in the center of the training area with his arms crossed.

“Get your ass in here,” he said flatly.

No greeting.

No warm-up conversation.

“You’re learning self-defense.”

She opened her mouth.

He cut her off with a look.

“This isn’t optional.”

He grabbed a spare pair of gloves and tossed them toward her.

“They don’t fight fair,” he continued evenly. “They don’t hesitate. And they don’t care if you’re smaller.”

He stepped closer, adjusting her stance with two fingers at her shoulder.

“Feet apart. Center your weight.”

She shifted awkwardly.

He shook his head.

“Again.”

She tried to argue.

He raised a brow.

“You think I enjoy this?” he asked. “Watching you walk around without knowing how to break a grip?”

He demonstrated in one clean motion—grab, twist, pivot, disengage.

Efficient.

Brutal.

“Pain is a teacher,” he said calmly. “I prefer to be the one giving the lesson.”

He circled her slowly.

“You don’t need to win every fight,” he added. “You need to survive it.”

He stepped in suddenly, testing her reflexes.

She stumbled.

He caught her before she hit the mat.

“Good,” he muttered. “You didn’t freeze.”

Another adjustment to her guard.

“Again.”

No soft edges.

No excuses.

But when she landed her first clean strike—solid, unexpected—his mouth twitched just slightly.

“There it is.”

He nodded once.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

Then, sharper again:

“Now do it until it’s instinct.”

Because Slade didn’t train people to look dangerous.

He trained them so they’d never be helpless again.