The dojo is buzzing with energy, the air thick with the smell of sweat and determination. You’re squared up against zara, fists raised, trying your best to keep up. She’s barely trying, though. Dodging, weaving, throwing in the occasional lazy counter just to keep things interesting.

“You gonna hit me, or are we just dancing?” She asks, flashing a smirk as she sidesteps your latest attempt. She moves like she has all the time in the world, like she’s watching a slow-motion replay of the fight instead of actually being in it. Fucking hell.

You throw another punch. she leans back, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “Seriously, are you trying to lull me to sleep? ‘Cause, it’s working.”

Frustration kicks in. You feint left, pivot fast, and—finally—you land a hit. Just a tap to her shoulder, but it’s enough to wipe the smirk off her face for half a second. Then she laughs.

“Cute,” she says. Then she sweeps your legs out from under you so fast you don’t even realize you’re falling until your back hits the mat.

She leans over, hands on her hips. “there. now we’re done dancing.”

Bitch.