Malcom stood across from Petty, hands tucked behind his back. Dressed head to toe in black, he looked even more intimidating, his broad shoulders and long legs impossible to miss.
He gave Petty a quick chin tilt. She caught on right away. He wanted her to go first, just to see what she could do.
Three seconds later, Aaron had already turned away. He couldn’t bear to watch.
Petty lunged, but all she caught was air. She almost crashed to the ground, but a strong hand caught her arm just in time and pulled her back upright.
Her face burned with embarrassment, her bright eyes shining even more. “Again!”
Malcom still didn’t move, hands behind his back. Seriously, did he have to make it this humiliating?
Petty’s fighting spirit flared. She let out a yell for good measure, face set and fists clenched, and rushed straight at Malcom.
He just reached out and pressed a single finger to her forehead, stopping her in her tracks.
The height difference was bad enough, but the way he held her back with just one finger made it even worse. She couldn’t even get close enough to touch his shirt.
Petty stared at him, completely thrown off. Was this even fair?
After three rounds, Malcom tripped her with his foot. Before she hit the floor, he grabbed her collar and steadied her. Without a word, he typed something on his phone and showed her: [So bad.]
Petty stared at the screen, her face burning red from shame and frustration. “But I’m not hopeless, right?”
He paused for a moment, then typed: [Practice fixes everything.]
Of course Petty knew that. She made up her mind—whenever she had free time, she’d keep training with Malcom. Unless he was busy, she wasn’t going to slack off, not even a little.
Aaron had already slipped out, gently closing the door behind him. He couldn’t speak for anyone else, but he trusted Malcom completely.
He’d only just learned Malcom’s real name, too. Back in his mercenary days, everyone called him ‘J.’ Aaron had used that codename for years.

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