He grinned wider. “And I’m giving you a chance to earn something better than minimum wage.”
He reached for her again, this time aiming for her shoulder, his hand coming in fast, confident, like he had done this before and expected it to go the same way it always did.
It didn’t.
Mara moved before his fingers made contact. Not dramatically, not with the kind of flourish people expect from a fight, but with something cleaner, more precise. She stepped inside his reach, her hand catching his wrist and turning it just enough to break his balance, her shoulder driving forward into his chest with controlled force. The shift was subtle, almost gentle, but it was enough. His footing slipped, his weight shifted, and suddenly he was off-center, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.
By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.
Mara pivoted, her foot hooking behind his knee, and brought him down hard against the tile with a motion so smooth it looked almost effortless. The sound of impact echoed sharper than it should have, amplified by the silence that followed.
One of the other men lunged, his reaction immediate, fueled more by surprise than strategy. Mara turned, her arm coming up to intercept his, striking at the joint with just enough force to redirect him. He stumbled sideways, crashing into a stool that splintered under the weight. Another swung wildly, his movement sloppy, untrained. Mara stepped outside the arc of his arm, her foot snapping low against his leg in a controlled kick that took him down to one knee, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.
It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t even really a fight.
It was control.
The man in the corner stood then, his dog rising with him, silent but alert, the shift in their posture enough to draw attention even without movement.
