INTERLUDE: SMALL SHIFTS

Taylor had never been one for self-delusion. If something felt off, she noticed. She might not always say something, but she noticed.

And lately, things had been off.

It was small stuff, easy to brush off. The first time, she barely registered it—reaching for her water bottle, only for it to feel like it moved the tiniest bit toward her fingers. She chalked it up to her being more tired than she realized, a trick of perception.

Then it happened again. Keith had them running footwork drills. Step, pivot, reset. Again. She followed his movements as best she could, keeping her stance low, feet moving lightly over the worn mats.

She wasn’t bad at it—which surprised her most.

She had expected to stumble, to trip over her own feet and spend the first few weeks feeling completely out of her depth. But as she moved, adjusting her stance, it all felt… smooth. Too smooth.

Taylor frowned, but Keith was already clapping his hands. “Quicker on the reset, don’t drag your back foot.”

She corrected without thinking, adjusting mid-step before she even fully processed the command. It felt right—like she was exactly where she needed to be.

Maybe she was just picking it up faster than she expected.

She pushed the thought aside and kept moving, though she was unsure why it felt wrong.

However, the moment that did give her pause came a few days later.

She was at the heavy bag, running through drills, sweat sticking to her skin. Her arms were sore, her shoulders burned from holding them up so long, and her knuckles ached even through the wraps, but she was starting to think she might actually like this.

Not enjoy, exactly—but there was something about it that kept her coming back.

Jab, cross, step.

Her knuckles met the bag with a solid thud as she threw the combination, focusing on form rather than power. The impact rattled through her wrist, but she was getting better at keeping it aligned. She exhaled, resetting her stance—

And then the bag moved.

Not from the force of her punch—she knew what that felt like. This was different. Not normal. It swung back toward her, just slightly, like something had pulled it forward instead of letting it follow its natural arc.

Taylor blinked.

She reached out, pressing a palm to the bag to stop its movement. Maybe she’d misread it. Maybe she was just tired.

She stepped back, throwing another jab. The bag rocked, then again, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift toward her before it moved away.

She frowned, rolling out her shoulders and shaking out her hands.

She was imagining things. That had to be it.

“Hands up,” Keith called from across the gym. “You drop ‘em after every hit. Get out of that habit now.”

Pushing the thought aside, she snapped her guard back up and reset her stance, forcing herself to focus.

Jab, cross, step.

Back to work.