Chapter 7

The first time I tried to do a pull-up, I hung there for exactly four seconds before dropping onto the mat like a sack of wet flour.

I stared up at the ceiling of the private gym, my arms trembling, my palms raw. The pull-up bar creaked above me, almost mockingly.

Pathetic.In my past life, I could do thirty consecutive pull-ups in full combat gear. I could run ten miles with a sixty-pound ruck and still have breath left to shoot straight. That body was gone. 

This body, the one I'd woken up in, was soft. The skin was smooth, the muscles undefined, the core weak from three years of carrying groceries and bending over to pick up Leo's toys.I rolled off the mat and landed on my feet, wincing as my unconditioned knees protested. 

"Again," I muttered to myself.I jumped up, grabbed the bar, and hung. My shoulders burned. My grip slipped. I dropped.

"Again."By the twentieth attempt, I managed six seconds. By the fiftieth, I managed twelve. My hands were blistered, my forearms on fire, and I was pretty sure I was going to throw up my protein shake.

But I wasn't stopping. I had twenty-eight days until the dead started walking, and right now, I couldn't even defend myself against a moderately aggressive golden retriever.

The next morning, I drove to a warehouse-style combat gym on the south side of the city. No mirrors. No juice bar. No I*******m influencers taking selfies in matching sports bras.

Just mats, heavy bags, cages, and the smell of sweat and disinfectant.This was where real fighters trained. 

And this was where I was going to find someone who could beat the weakness back into my body.I walked in at six AM, wearing plain black compression gear and wrapped hands. The gym was mostly empty, save for a few early-bird fighters shadowboxing in the corners and the heavy thud of shins against Thai pads.

A man stood in the center of the main mat, holding mitts for a teenager who was kicking with everything he had. The man was built like a brick wall—broad shoulders, a thick neck, a cauliflower ear, and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. 

He moved with the lazy, coiled grace of someone who'd been hit in the face more times than he could count and had enjoyed every single one.

The teenager finished his set and jogged off. The man lowered the pads and glanced at me."We don't do cardio kickboxing," he said, his voice a low gravel. "And we don't do private lessons for people who want to look good in Lululemon.

"I didn't flinch. "Good. I don't want to look good. I want to be dangerous."He raised an eyebrow, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "You look like you pull a hamstring when you sneeze, lady. This gym isn't for you.""My name is Scarlett Vance," I said. 

"And I'm not here to look good. I'm here to hire you."He let out a short, dismissive laugh. "I don't train socialites. Go to the upscale place downtown. 

They'll give you a towel and a smoothie and call it a workout.""I'm not a socialite," I said, my voice flat. "I'm a client. And I'm paying. Five thousand a week. Cash. For the next four weeks."That got his attention. His eyes flicked over me, calculating. Five thousand a week was serious money. 

But he still looked like he thought I was a joke."Name's Derek," he said finally. "And if you're paying, I'm going to break you. Most people who walk in here crying about wanting to learn self-defense quit by day three. 

You'll be begging me to stop by lunch.""Try me," I said.He didn't go easy on me.For the first two hours, he ran me through basic stance work, footwork, and balance drills.

 He corrected my posture with sharp taps to my ribs and muttered under his breath every time I shifted my weight wrong."Your center of gravity is all over the place," he grunted, circling me. 

"You're standing like a civilian. Feet too close together. Hips too high. If I shove you right now, you'll eat the mat.""Then shove me," I said, breathing hard.He smirked. "Careful what you wish for."He stepped in and shoved my chest with one hand. I stumbled backward, my sneakers squeaking on the mat, and barely caught myself before falling."Pathetic," he said. "Again.

"He shoved me again. I stumbled.Again. I stumbled.By the tenth shove, my legs were shaking, and Derek was looking at me like I was a particularly disappointing puppy."Look," he said, dropping his hands. 

"I don't know what your deal is, Vance. Maybe you're going through a divorce and you want to feel tough. Maybe you watched some movie and now you think you're John Wick. But this isn't that. You don't have muscle memory. 

You don't have the conditioning. And you definitely don't have the instinct."I straightened up, wiping sweat from my eyes. My chest was heaving. My legs felt like jelly.But my brain? My brain was wide awake.

Because Derek was right about one thing. I didn't have the muscle memory. This body didn't know how to fight.But I did.Every drill he'd put me through, I'd recognized. Every correction he'd made, I'd already known.

 My body was weak, but my mind was a loaded weapon. I just needed to reconnect the wiring."You're done with the drills," I said, my voice steady. "Put the pads on."Derek blinked. 

"What?""You heard me. Put the pads on. Let's spar."He laughed, a genuine, belly-deep laugh. "Lady, I just pushed you over ten times. You can barely stand up. If I put pads on and you try to hit me, you're going to hurt yourself.""I'm not asking for your permission," I said. "I'm telling you what's happening next. 

Put the pads on, or I walk out that door and you lose five thousand dollars a week."His smile faded. He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head and strapped on the Thai pads."Fine," he said. "Throw a punch. 

Let's get this over with."He squared up, holding the pads in front of his chest, his stance relaxed, his weight easy. He was humoring me. He was expecting a flailing, uncoordinated swing that he could laugh about later.I took a breath. I closed my eyes for half a second and let the muscle memory rise to the surface. Not in my arms—in my mind.

 The geometry of the fight. The angle of his stance. The way his weight was distributed on his back foot. The slight opening in his guard because he didn't think I was a threat.I stepped in.My left foot pivoted. My hips rotated. 

My right fist drove forward in a tight, compact cross, aimed directly at the center of the left pad.The impact cracked through the gym like a gunshot.Derek's eyes went wide. 

The pad slammed into his chest, and he actually took a half-step back.The gym went quiet. The teenager in the corner stopped wrapping his hands. The guy on the heavy bag froze mid-kick.Derek stared at me, then down at the pad, then back at me."Okay," he said slowly.

 "That was... not bad.""I'm not done," I said.He reset, holding the pads up again, but this time his stance was different. His weight was forward. His guard was tighter. He wasn't humoring me anymore."Show me what else you got," he said.I threw a jab-cross-hook combination. Each strike landed with crisp, brutal precision. 

The pads echoed like drumbeats. Derek absorbed the impact, his arms shaking, but he didn't back up this time.When I finished, he lowered the pads slowly. He was breathing harder now."Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked, his voice completely different. 

The condescension was gone."I didn't learn it," I said, rolling my shoulders. "I'm remembering it."He stared at me for a long moment. Then he did something I didn't expect.

He dropped the pads on the mat and stepped back, raising his hands into a bare-knuckle stance."Spar with me," he said. "No pads. No pulling punches. 

Let's see what you've really got."I smiled. A slow, dangerous smile."Gladly."We circled each other on the mat. Derek was good. Really good. He moved like a fighter who'd been in a hundred cage matches and walked away from all of them.

But I wasn't just a fighter. I was a soldier. And soldiers didn't fight fair.He threw a test jab. I slipped it and feinted a low kick. He dropped his hand to check it—And I drove a palm strike straight into his throat.Not hard enough to damage him.

 Hard enough to make him gag and stumble backward, his eyes wide with shock.Before he could recover, I stepped in, grabbed the lapels of his gym shirt, and used his own backward momentum to throw him. 

He hit the mat with a heavy thud, and I dropped my knee onto his chest, pinning him, my forearm across his throat.The gym was dead silent.Derek stared up at me, his face red, his chest heaving under my knee.

 He wasn't hurt. But he was completely, utterly dominated."You telegraphed your check," I said, my voice calm. "You dropped your left hand two inches when you saw the kick coming. In a real fight, I would have broken your windpipe before you could blink.

"I stood up and offered him my hand.He stared at my hand for a long moment. Then he took it, and I pulled him to his feet."Who the hell are you?" he asked, rubbing his throat."Scarlett Vance," I said. 

"And I need you to make me lethal in twenty-eight days."He let out a low whistle. "Twenty-eight days? What happens in twenty-eight days?"I looked him dead in the eye."The world ends."He stared at me like I was insane.And started laughing like crazy, 

Then he looked at the mat, where he'd just been dropped by a woman he thought was a socialite ten minutes ago."Fine," he said slowly. "Be here tomorrow at five AM. And Vance?""Yeah?""Bring a mouthguard. You're going to need it.”