Two months later. Far across the desert, in a city that had already forgotten magic, a boy dreamed of monsters—and woke up in their world. They trickled in slowly like drops of water from a slow leaky roof. Kevin, always yawning. Never ties his belt right. Mai, who moved like she was dancing even when she wasn't. Big Marcus, built like a vending machine, still thinking strength was enough. And the new girl—Felicity Grey. Already changed. Already waiting. They bowed as they entered. Quiet nods. No chatter. They respected the space. Or maybe they just mirrored my silence. We formed the circle. Knees on mats. Breath syncing. Outside, the sun was dying slow behind the desert skyline. Inside, we pulsed together—muscle memory, tension, and sweat.
Warm-Up Flow "Shrimp escapes. Go." I said. The sound of shifting bodies filled the room. Sliding hips. Grunting exhalations. The hiss of Gi fabric on vinyl. I walked the perimeter, barefoot, watching form. "Mai—keep your elbow tight. Don't give them space. Marcus, slower. This isn't a sprint—it's a negotiation. Kevin, that's your neck. Don't donate it."
After awhile of this we transitioned to sparring – One-on-One Rounds "Alright. Partner up."
They scrambled. Everyone knew who they liked to roll with. Except Felicity. She waited. Watching me. Smart. Calculating. Or just lucky?
Ash: "Grey. You're with me."
We squared up on the mat. She bowed slightly. I nodded back. I could feel it immediately—something off in her stance. Too loose to be beginner. Too relaxed for someone who claimed to just be "trying something new."
"Hands up. Base low. Don't telegraph." She didn't. Not even a blink. I stepped forward with a collar grip, ready to guide her through a simple trip. She reversed it. Not hard. Not showy. Just precise. Fluid. Like water deciding not to be caught. The room froze. "Again," I said. We reset. This time I faked the grip and moved for an ankle pick. She sprawled before I could blink and slid into a reverse half-guard. Her knee brushed my ribs. No power behind it—just presence. Intent. "Where'd you train?" I asked, quiet, halfway into a hip escape. "I watch a lot of YouTube," she said with a tilt of her head.
"I call bullshit" I said with a laugh. I swept her anyway, more force than form, and pinned her inside control. But even from there—her breathing was calm. Her fingers were tracing grip points. She was studying me while I taught her. She tapped the mat. Smile untouched. "You're good," I muttered.
She looked up at me with eyes that didn't blink fast enough. "I'm just observant." The others filed out, one by one, sweat-soaked and smiling. Kevin offered a tired high-five. Mai winked. Marcus grunted something about energy drinks and left a towel on the bench again. The lock clicked behind them. The hum of the AC stuttered. The dojo settled into its after-breath.
I turned back to wipe the mat down. My shirt clung to me, muscles twitching. I could still feel the way she moved. Still trying to name it. "You move like you're used to being watched," I muttered to no one. Except she hadn't left. Felicity was still on the edge of the mat, crouched like a cat, watching me. One knee drawn up, elbows resting loosely. Her uwagi top was untied, hanging open over a tight black tank, her skin glossy with sweat. "You don't stretch with the rest of them," I said, tossing her a towel.
She caught it without looking. "Don't need to," she replied. "I'm flexible where it matters." The towel landed beside her, unused. She rose slowly. Fluidly. Like every movement was planned in advance. "I wanted to thank you," she said, walking closer. "For letting me roll with you. I've been watching your class for a while."
I turned. "From where?" She smiled—too calm, too soft. "Windows. Shadows. Internet. Depends on the night." Something in my gut twisted. My hands itched.
"You picked things up fast," I said carefully. "Real fast." She stepped closer. We were a foot apart now. "I learn better when I like the instructor," she said. Her gaze didn't move. Didn't blink. Not once. "You breathing okay?" I asked, a joke with sharp corners. She laughed. A perfect, measured sound. The dojo lights flickered. A single fluorescent tube popped, buzzed, went dark. The air shifted—cooler, heavier. Like a pressure drop before a monsoon. Or a blackout dream about to crawl into daylight.
She leaned in, just enough.
"I saw what you did," she whispered.
I stiffened."...When?"
"First time," she said. "That night by the tracks. You saved a man. Crushed a monster." Her smile widened, "But you didn't see me." I stepped back. My foot hit the edge of the mat. "You're not just a student."
"No," she said, rolling her shoulders, that sweat-slick hair sticking to her collarbone. "I'm your first fan." She didn't wait for a reply. Just turned. Untied belt trailing like a loose thought behind her. Bare feet whispering across vinyl. She paused at the door. Fingers on the handle. Head tilted—just enough. "Thanks again, Sensei," she said without looking back. "But next time... don't hold back."
The door clicked shut behind her. No footsteps beyond it. No car engine. Just... gone. The dojo felt colder. My skin was tight. My throat, dry. I stared at the spot she'd stood. Could still feel her breath. Her balance. Her perfect, wrong rhythm. That wasn't training. That wasn't practice. That was something else. Something old.
Something watching.
I sat down on the mat. Hard. Her rhythm haunted him, and her presence lingered like a predator's purr, grounded his suspicion. The static hum of the broken light was the only sound. And under it—
Somewhere in the walls of the city—
A low, vibrating pulse. Like a distant engine. Or a predator purring. I powered down the dojo like a ritual. Breaker off. Mats cleaned. Door latched with the soft finality of a confession. The night had that late-summer tension—heat still in the air, but shadows lengthening like teeth. The sky was bruised purple; the kind of color that meant the city was between heartbeats. But I hadn't forgotten my secret mission for the night I was going to stake out the old power substation. I parked in a secure parking garage and got my bike out of the back of my ride.
I cycled the rest of the way I seen some bushes and stashed my bike there covering it with leaves and debris. I leaned against the rusted gate of the old substation, hoodie up, bag strapped tight. The street was quiet. Too quiet.
11:00 PM came and went. Nothing.
11:30—just a couple drunks laughing two blocks over.
12:00—my knees started to ache.
At 12:31 AM, something changed.
A shape—slim, fluid, female—emerged from behind the chain-link fence. She moved like someone who knew the cameras weren't watching. Black hair. Tight dark coat. Combat boots with a familiar bounce to the step. "No way" I thought. I squinted. She was walking with purpose. She glanced once over her shoulder. Not at me. Just the street. Then she ducked behind a cracked transformer tower and slipped down a slope of weeds and broken concrete. I waited a beat then followed her.
The slope led to a ruined foundation—an old city construction project buried by bureaucracy.
And there it was. A covered hatch, partway hidden under rusted scaffolding and a snapped slab of cement. I hesitated, then followed. The tunnel narrowed, then widened.
The air changed from hot to cool and alive. Pipes wept condensation. Lichen glowed in nervous pulses. Muffled sounds echoed from below—voices, cheers, something like music fed through a lung. And then I saw it. My heart raced as I followed the woman into the depths of the vein. The tunnel narrowed, then widened, and the air changed from hot to cool and alive. I could hear muffled sounds echoing from below—voices, cheers, something like music fed through a lung. This was a world unto itself, a hidden ecosystem teeming with danger and mystery.
As I descended, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. The pipes wept condensation, and lichen glowed in nervous pulses, casting eerie shadows on the walls. I moved cautiously, my senses heightened, ready for any sign of danger. Suddenly, the tunnel opened up into a vast chamber.
An underground world sprawled before me like a buried city dreaming of bloodsport—subterranean, seething, alive. Corridors made of rusted freight elevators and fungal glass arched overhead. Sewer grates steamed, and neon fungus blinked from the ceilings in shifting hues: bruised pink, bio-green, radiant noir. Someone had wired ancient power lines through carcass scaffolding. I took a deep breath, trying to orient myself.
The air was thick with the scent of musk and ichor, I knew I was in a place of ancient power, a realm where the lines between myth and reality blurred.