Reza
“You’re late.”
Jason’s voice cuts clean through the training hall, sharp enough that it stops me mid-step.
I glance automatically at the wall clock. “I’m on time.”
He turns then.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just enough that his full attention lands on me. Direct, unflinching, utterly uninterested in charm or explanation.
“On time is late when you’re being tested.”
That answers a question I hadn’t asked yet.
Something settles in my chest. Recognition.
“Are you testing me?” I ask.
“No,” Jason says. “I’m observing.”
He gestures toward the mat with two fingers. “Show me how you move.”
No warm-up. No instruction. No framing.
Just expectation.
I drop my bag and step onto the mat, letting my body take over before my thoughts can interfere. I don’t embellish. I don’t restrain
