The heavy bag swayed slightly as Astrid wrapped her hands, watching its movement in the wall-length mirror. Behind her reflection, she could see Eret circling another fighter, calling out corrections. His military bearing was obvious even in gym clothes—spine straight, movements precise, eyes constantly scanning the room.
She'd been here three hours. Long enough to establish she knew her way around a gym, not long enough to seem eager. The front desk had already asked about her amateur record. Now she just had to wait for—
"Nice form."
Eret's reflection appeared behind her. She didn't turn, just continued wrapping, letting the tape flow between her fingers with practiced ease. "Thanks."
"Astrid Hofferson." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Watched some footage of your fights. That Vegas qualifier was brutal."
Tell him the truth, Hiccup had said. About not tapping out.
"Referee stoppage." She secured the wrap with a final loop over the knuckles of one hand. "Doctor said I was lucky not to lose the arm."
"But you didn't tap out."
Now she turned, meeting his gaze. "Neither would you."
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or assessment. "Why'd you stop competing?"
"Medical bills aren't cheap." She rolled her shoulder, where the old injury was supposed to be. "Neither is rent. Heard this place might have opportunities for people who can handle themselves."
"Lot of gyms offer underground matches."
"I'm not looking for glory." She kept her voice neutral. "Just work."
Eret studied her for a long moment. Then he pushed himself off the wall. "Grab your gear. Let's see what you've got."
The ring ropes creaked as she ducked through them. Across the canvas, Eret was talking quietly with another fighter—bigger guy, heavyweight class. When he caught her looking, he smiled. But it wasn't friendly.
Let him think he's reading you, Hiccup's voice echoed. Then in the third round...
The bell rang.
The heavyweight came in fast—trying to overwhelm her with size. Astrid weathered the first flurry of blows, letting him push her back. Letting him think his reach advantage mattered. The first round went to him.
On the second round, she showed a little more. Caught his kicks, landed some counters. Nothing flashy. Just enough to make him work. To make him angry.
By the third round he was breathing heavy now. Red faced with exertion and frustration. When he telegraphed another rush, she didn't retreat.
Instead, she stepped in.
The throw was textbook. All his momentum, none of his control. He hit the canvas hard. Before he could recover, she had his arm hyperextended—the same submission hold that had nearly ended her career.
She could feel Eret watching. Waiting to see if she'd hurt his fighter.
Astrid held the position for two more seconds, then released. Stepped back. Let the heavyweight save face by claiming he'd slipped.
Later, as she was gathering her bag, Eret appeared again.
"Private training room," he said quietly. "Tomorrow. Nine AM."
She nodded once, not looking up. But as she headed for the door, she caught his reflection in the mirror. He was already on his phone, probably reporting to someone higher up.
Spring the trap on my terms, she thought, pushing through the glass doors to find it raining.
She'd passed the first test and was a member of the gym. Now the real work began.