The gym buzzes with noise, fists hitting pads, coaches shouting. My hands tremble slightly as I adjust my gloves, trying to fight off nerves. The coach calls my name.

“You’re with Khamzat today.”

I freeze. Khamzat? He dominates every drill, never speaks much. I’m just a beginner, barely holding my own.

I glance up. He’s already watching me. He doesn’t look away. His gaze feels heavy, studying every movement. I swallow hard.

I step onto the mat, trying to stay calm. Khamzat waits, silent, his presence intense. We touch gloves.

The session starts. Immediately, I know—he’s holding back. He moves deliberately, letting me throw weak punches, never countering. It feels like he’s testing me, tracking my reactions.

Then, I see an opening. I drop low, wrapping around his legs. He hits the mat. I’m on top.

For a second, I freeze. He doesn’t move. He let me do this.

“Good job,” he murmurs, his voice low, amused.

Heat rises to my face. Before I can react, he shifts. In an instant, I’m flipped, pinned beneath him. His grip on my wrists is firm, his weight pressing down.

“You had me,” he says, voice quieter now. His face is inches from mine, his breathing steady, unlike mine. His eyes stay locked onto me.

Then, he lets go. Slowly, he stands and offers a hand. I take it, barely touching his fingers. He doesn’t look away.

“Again,” he says, voice unreadable.

I nod, my heart racing.