Chapter 4 - Daisy

Marcus circles me like he’s bored of me already.

That’s how I know I’m doing better. I'm getting there. I feel it in my bones.

“Again,” he says, flat. Not loud. Not impressed. “From the top.”

I reset my stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees loose. Weight balanced—not leaning forward like I used to. My hands come up automatically now, palms half-open. Ready. They don't shake like they used to. They aren't sweaty anymore.

I don't have to think about it anymore, I just do it.

“Go on,” Marcus adds, tilting his head. “Unless you’ve decided tonight’s the night you quit.”

I snort under my breath and step forward.

He lunges without warning—fast, controlled. I catch his wrist, pivot like he drilled into me, and drive my elbow back toward where his ribs would be if he weren’t already shifting out of range. He blocks it, of course. He always does. But this time my balance holds. This time I don’t stumble. I keep track on his weak points. His left arm is his strongest arm so I always take my aim for that one.

Marcus hums. Low. Annoyingly pleased.

“Better,” he says. “Still sloppy. Again.”

Sweat drips down my spine. My hair sticks to my neck. The mat beneath my socked feet is cold, faintly rubbery, scuffed with years of other people learning not to be helpless.

And we go again.

He grabs. I react. He pushes harder.

“You’re thinking,” he snaps. “Stop that.”

“I am not—”

“You are. I can see it in your shoulders.”

He shoves me back, not enough to knock me over, just enough to irritate me. I plant my feet and glare at him. I hate when he does this. I know why he's doing it, he wants me to feel the anger and fear and rise with it instead of allowing myself to be taken out by it.

“That all you’ve got?” I ask.

His mouth twitches. There it is. The thing he does when he’s about to push.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re not strong enough to be cocky. Not smart enough to out do me.”

Something hot sparks in my chest. Old. Familiar.

“Funny,” I say. “You didn’t seem to mind last week when I put you on your ass.”

He laughs once. Sharp. “You caught me off guard.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Now I’m wondering how long you’d last if I wasn’t pulling my punches. If I gave you exactly everything your old man gave you. Do you think you could hack that shit Daisy?”

There it is. The goading I was expecting.

My jaw tightens before I can stop it.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Anger’s useful,” Marcus says calmly, hands up. “But only if you control it. Otherwise, you’re just loud.”

I move before he finishes the sentence.

This time when he grabs my arm, I don’t hesitate. I twist, drop my weight, drive my heel back and clip his ankle. Not enough to take him down—but enough to make him adjust. Enough to make him stumble slightly to get that balance he needs.

His eyebrows lift.

We break apart, breathing hard.

Silence hangs between us, thick with effort and sweat and something like respect.

“See?” he says after a moment. “You don’t need permission to fight back.”

I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. My arms shake, but I don’t hide it, this is a big thing for me. This is exactly what I needed and he knew it.

“I wasn’t waiting for permission.”

“No,” he agrees. “You were waiting for a reason.”

He steps back, claps once. “Call it. Same time next week.”

I nod, heart still thudding, and grab my coat from the bench. My muscles ache in that good, earned way. The way that says I did something instead of letting it happen to me. 2 years of self defence classes and I feel myself starting to loosen up. I came here 2 years ago scared, looking over my shoulder, emotionally battered and tired. Marcus knew it, he knew I needed a reason to fight back.

Outside, the night has settled in thick and cold. Its cold, windy and raining. When I got to the UK I was confused by people saying, "Welcome to britain.... Where it rains 24/7" I assumed they were being dramtic but they were not. 

I zip my coat up to my chin and start the walk home. The streets are quiet—not empty, just subdued. Shops shuttered. Streetlights buzzing softly overhead. My breath fogs in front of me, then disappears.

I don’t rush.

I never do anymore.

My boots strike the pavement steady, even. My head up. Shoulders back. Marcus drilled that into me too—posture matters. Not because it scares anyone, but because it reminds you that you belong where you are.

Halfway down the second block, I feel it.

That shift. That subtle wrongness.

Like the air has leaned closer.

I don’t look around. That would be obvious. Instead, I slow my steps just enough to listen—to the echo of my own footfalls, to the distant hum of traffic, to the faint scrape of something behind me that doesn’t quite match my rhythm.

But I keep walking.

My coat stays wrapped tight, hands tucked into the pockets like I’m just another woman heading home after a long day. Nothing to see here. 

But my spine prickles.

Awareness slides into place—not fear. Not yet. Just… attention.

Marcus’s voice flickers through my head. Trust the feeling. Don’t dramatise it. Don’t ignore it either.

I pass a closed café, its windows dark. My reflection glides alongside me in the glass. Chin up. Expression neutral. Taking a simple glance in the window behind me, I find nothing. I make myself look as if I'm simply another person looking at themselves but I'm not. I'm 100% aware of the world around me.

Another sound behind me. Too light to be coincidence.

I adjust my grip inside my pocket, fingers brushing the familiar weight there. Not a weapon. Just something solid. Something that reminds me I’m not empty-handed.

If someone’s watching me, I don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing it matters.

I turn the corner onto my street, pace unbroken.

Whatever this is—whoever it’s for—I’ll meet it standing.

And if not?

Well.

I’ve learned how to fight back now.