You wipe sweat from your brow as Alicia stands across from you, eyes sharp and focused. The empty lot you’ve claimed as a training ground is littered with broken boards and debris, but she makes it work.

“Grip it like this,” she says, demonstrating with a baseball bat. You mimic her stance, feeling awkward at first. Alicia shakes her head, stepping closer. “No, your elbows! Keep them tight. You want control, not just brute force.”

You swing again, and this time Alicia nods approvingly. “Better. Again.”

Next, she moves on to knives, her movements precise and confident. She watches as you fumble with the blade. “Relax,” she advises. “Confidence is everything. Hesitation will get you killed out there.”

Hours pass in a rhythm of instruction and practice. Alicia’s patience is firm but encouraging, correcting your posture, guiding your aim, and sharing survival tips she’s learned the hard way. You begin to feel more capable, more ready for whatever the streets throw at you.

Finally, she steps back, letting you try on your own. You move through the motions—bat swings, knife stabs, defensive stances—and Alicia watches silently. When you finish, she cracks a small smile.

“Not bad,” she says. “Keep practicing, and you might just survive.”