CHAPTER TWO
She rolled out of bed, stubbed her toe on the dumbbell she'd left on the floor—"Occupational hazard," she hissed through gritted teeth—and stumbled to her closet.
She pulled on compression leggings with tiny swords printed on them, a sports bra that actually supported her, and a loose tank top that read TRAIN LIKE THE WORLD IS ENDING.
Her roommate, Jenna, emerged from her bedroom with pillow creases on her face and murder in her eyes. "If you wake me up again, I will hide your protein powder."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
Olivia grabbed her gym bag and a protein bar that tasted like expired cardboard. "I'm being trained by a Greek god disguised as a personal trainer. If I die, donate my comic book collection to a worthy cause."
"You're not going to die at a gym."
"You haven't seen his shoulders. They might be fatal."
The streets were empty at 4:45 AM, the city still wrapped in gray dawn. Olivia walked the eight blocks to Ironhaven, her breath fogging in the October air, her stomach a nervous knot of excitement and terror.
She'd spent half the night watching Valeria Vance compilation videos. Her favourite scene—the warehouse fight from *Chronos Gate: Redemption*—played on loop in her head. Valeria had been surrounded by twelve mercenaries, out of ammunition, smiling like she'd just been invited to a party.
"Numbers don't scare me," Valeria had said, cracking her neck. "Math was never my strong suit."
Then she'd moved—flowing, spinning, using her flexibility and her weight like weapons. She'd dropped to the floor, swept three legs at once, rolled into a back handspring, and kicked a man unconscious before he hit the ground.
Olivia wanted that. Not the violence, exactly, but the mastery. The absolute certainty of her own body.
Ironhaven's lights were on when she arrived. Through the front windows, she could see Lucas setting up equipment in the combat area—hanging heavy bags, laying out mats, his movements efficient and precise.
Olivia took a deep breath and walked inside.
"You're late," Lucas said without looking up.
"It's 4:58."
"I said five AM. That means you're here at 4:45, warmed up, ready to work." He finally turned, tossing her a jump rope. "Five hundred jumps. Now."
"I haven't even—"
"Now, Thornwood."
She caught the rope and started jumping. By two hundred, her calves were burning. By four hundred, she was cursing him in three languages. By five hundred, she was drenched in sweat and weirdly proud of herself.
Lucas didn't give her a break. "Dynamic stretches. Leg swings, arm circles, hip openers. I'll correct your form."
They moved through a brutal warm-up that made her realize exactly how much she didn't know. Lucas pushed her hips lower in lunges, adjusted her knee alignment in squats, and stopped her mid-stretch to reposition her shoulders.
"You're flexible," he noted as she folded into a pancake stretch, chest flat against the floor between her legs.
"I've been doing gymnastics since I was a kid."
"Not professionally?"
"Couldn't afford it. YouTube tutorials and a lot of falling down."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Show me a bridge."
Olivia pushed up into a full wheel pose, her back arching, hands and feet planted firmly. It was one of her best skills—her spine had always been naturally flexible, her hips mobile, her shoulders open despite her build.
Lucas walked around her, examining her form. "Good shoulder extension. But your weight is in your heels. Shift to the balls of your feet."
She adjusted. The stretch deepened.
"Hold it."
She held. Her arms shook. Lucas started counting—slowly, deliberately, torture in every number.
"...twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Down."
Olivia collapsed onto the mat, gasping. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"If I were trying to kill you, you'd know." He tossed her a pair of boxing gloves. "Bag work. Three-minute rounds, one-minute rest. Six rounds."
"Six?"
"You said you wanted to fight. Fighters don't complain about six rounds."
She pulled on the gloves and approached the heavy bag. It was enormous—at least a hundred and fifty pounds, probably more than her own weight. She settled into her stance and threw her first combination.
By round three, her shoulders were screaming. By round five, her form was crumbling. By round six, she was barely keeping her hands up, her punches reduced to weak taps against the unyielding leather.
"Stop," Lucas said.
Olivia leaned against the bag, panting. "I can do more."
"Your form is garbage. More bad reps don't make a good fighter.
" He walked over and stood in front of her, close enough that she could smell his soap—cedar and something citrus.
"You have good instincts. Your flexibility is exceptional.
Your core strength is better than you think.
But your endurance is trash, your footwork is non-existent, and you drop your hands when you're tired. "
Olivia wiped sweat from her eyes. "So you're saying I'm terrible."
"I'm saying you're raw. There's a difference." He smiled—that annoying, charming smile. "Terrible can't be fixed. Raw can be shaped."
Something warm expanded in her chest. She crushed it immediately. "Don't get sentimental on me, Lucas. I might start thinking you like me."
"I like potential. You happen to have it." He tossed her a water bottle. "Same time tomorrow. We'll work on footwork."
"What, no 'good job'? No 'I'm proud of you'?"
"You want a gold star, join a kindergarten. You want to be a fighter, show up tomorrow and work harder."
He walked toward the staff room, leaving Olivia alone with her exhaustion and her rapidly expanding list of questions about Lucas-who-works-here.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was red, her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her tank top was soaked through. She looked like she'd been hit by a bus.
But she'd shown up.
And she'd be back tomorrow.
"Valeria Vance didn't quit after one workout," she told her reflection. "And neither do I."