We begin slowly. How to stand. How to breathe. How to move without telegraphing intentions. She absorbs every lesson, her frustration visible only when her body can’t immediately perform what her mind understands.
“I’m never going to get this,” she mutters after an hour, sweat dampening her shirt, hair clinging to her forehead.
“You will,” I assure her, demonstrating the movement again. “Your body is learning a new language. It takes time.”
Days turn into a week. Each morning, the patterns become more fluid. Each afternoon, her strikes grow stronger, herfootwork more precise. I watch her transform—not into a soldier, but into something equally powerful.
A survivor who refuses to be a victim again.
One afternoon, after a particularly grueling session with defensive moves, she collapses onto the mat, frustration etched into every line of her body.
“This is pointless,” she says, voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m never going to win a fight against men like Steffan. Against men like Drake.”
I crouch beside her, about to offer reassurance, when a better idea strikes me. “Mitzy!” I call. “CJ! Got a minute?”
They appear in the doorway moments later—Mitzy with her ever-present tablet, CJ looking mildly amused.
“Need your help with a demonstration,” I say, rising to my feet. “Willow needs to see something.”
Understanding dawns in Mitzy’s eyes. Without a word, she hands her tablet to CJ and steps onto the mat, kicking off her shoes as she goes.
“What’s happening?” Willow asks, confusion replacing frustration as she watches Mitzy roll her shoulders, stretching her neck.
“A lesson,” I reply, moving to stand beside CJ. “Mitzy, you ready?”
The tech wizard—all five-foot-three of her—nods. “Any boring rules to follow?”
“Ha-ha, Standard takedown. No permanent damage.” I wink at her. “Try not to hurt me too badly.”
“Wait, what?” Willow sits up straighter, looking between us in disbelief.
Before she can say anything else, I lunge at Mitzy with a controlled strike that would have connected with most opponents. Instead, my hand meets air as she sidesteps, redirecting mymomentum with a twist of her forearm. In an eyeblink, I’m flat on my back, Mitzy’s knee pressing lightly into my sternum.
“Again.” I climb off the floor.
Mitzy backs away to reset.
This time, I approach more cautiously, feinting left before striking right. It makes no difference. Mitzy reads my movements like they’re written in neon, using my force against me. Three attempts, three takedowns, each more emphatic than the last.
By the final one, Willow is on her feet, mouth slightly open in awe.
“Your turn, CJ,” Mitzy says, gesturing him forward without breaking a sweat.
CJ hesitates only a moment before squaring off against her. Despite his greater size and obvious strength, the outcome is the same. In less than ten seconds, he’s on the mat, arm twisted behind his back, Mitzy’s expression never changing from mild boredom.
“How?” Willow breathes, looking at the diminutive woman with new eyes.
“Technique beats strength,” Mitzy says, releasing CJ and straightening her shirt. “Always. I’m never going to overpower a man like Mason or CJ. But I don’t need to. I just need to be smarter, faster, and better trained.”
“We train all our female operatives to capitalize on momentum over strength,” CJ explains, rubbing his shoulder where Mitzy manipulated a pressure point. “It evens the playing field. In a direct contest of strength, you’ll more likely than not—lose. However, we train our female operatives to minimize this as much as possible. It’s all about force, momentum, and physics. Gravity takes care of the rest.”
“CJ’s right,” I add. “Men rely on power. We’re taught to dominate through strength. We train against other men.Rarely against other women. Women like Mitzy are taught to redirect our power, use it against us.”
Willow looks between us, then at her own hands, small like Mitzy’s, but growing stronger every day. A slow smile spreads across her face, determination replacing defeat in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says, retying her ponytail. “I’m back in. Show me again.”
The next day’s training session runs longer than usual. By the time we finish, the lodge has emptied—Forest and Skye gone to a secure meeting in Missoula. Mitzy is locked in her tech lab, working on a secret project. The rest of the team are on various assignments. The blessed quiet feels like a stolen luxury after days of constant company.
