Two days later, I'm actually landing hits.
Not many. Raul still moves like water around my strikes, but every third or fourth attempt connects with his forearms, his shoulders. He doesn't praise me for it—just nods and comes at me harder.
"Better," he says, blocking a kick aimed at his ribs. "But you're still thinking too much. Let your instincts lead."
I'm about to respond when his phone buzzes. He catches my next punch one-handed, holding my fist while he checks the screen.
His expression shifts. Just slightly, but I've learned to read the micro-changes in his face.
"Lucia," he says, releasing me. "She wants to see us. Says there's something she needs to tell us in person."
My stomach drops. "That sounds ominous."
"Sí." He's already moving toward the edge of the platform. "We leav
