That is the first clean hit he did not predict. The shift in him is immediate, and not panic and not loss and aggression, and he presses harder after that, and his strikes come faster and more forceful, and the precision starts to slip at the edges where he is forcing it instead of letting it flow.
Good, because that is where he breaks. I do not try to match him cleanly, and I do not try to meet him evenly, and I move wrong and uneven and inconsistent in ways that force him to adjust again and again without ever settling into a rhythm he can use.
His next strike comes too direct, and I step inside it and drive my shoulder into him again, and the impact knocks him off line and forces him to reset. That second is everything.
“You are forcing it.” I say quietly.
His gaze sharpens, and the
