Page 30 of Make Them Cry
I open the encrypted chat.
ME:Can you teach me how to fight?
There’s a beat of silence, then:
MASK:Rule #1: Obey me.
Rule #2: No questions.
Rule #3: Seriously, no questions. Be ready in ten. Hoodie, sneakers. Tie your hair back.
He doesn’t knockwhen he gets here.
The door clicks once—keypad—and swings open to a man in a black hoodie, Ghostface mask, and gloves. His presence fills the doorway like a shadow wearing intention. He doesn’t speak as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.
I freeze, halfway to the kitchen.
He nods once. “Let’s begin.”
His voice is low. Calm. It makes my breath snag. It also sounds…almost familiar. He’s using a voice changer, but still the inflection is something I feel like I’ve heard before.
I squint, trying to place it, but he’s already moving the coffee table out of the way and rolling out a mat I didn’t realize was under his arm.
“What do I call you?” I ask, then immediately regret it.
He looks at me—dark eyes behind the mask unreadable. “You don’t.”
Right. Rules.
Still, something about the cadence of his words, the slight rasp—ugh, it’s going to drive me crazy.
“Stand here,” he says, pointing to the center of the mat. I obey, palms sweating. I feel ridiculous, suddenly self-conscious in my worn leggings and hoodie.
“Fists up.”
I mimic what I’ve seen in movies.
“No,” he says, stepping closer. He takes my wrist gently, tilting it.
“Your thumb wrapsoutside, not under. Unless you want a sprained joint.”
The correction sends a jolt through me—not from pain, but from howclosehe is. His fingers linger, warm and steady. I can feel the heat of him even through his gloves.
“Try again.”
I adjust. He nods.
Then, in a blur, he steps into my space and taps my shoulder. I stumble.
“Center of gravity,” he says. “You’re leaning. Too reactive. You need to be grounded.” He taps my foot with his own. “Shift. There. Better.”
My heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
I raise my fists again, and this time he nods with approval.
“You want to survive?” he asks. “Then move like it.”
He lunges again, slower now, showing me how to deflect. We go through the same motion over and over. Hands. Shoulders. Steps. Each correction comes with a touch—his hand on my elbow, his palm grazing my hip to guide my stance.
