Hail to the Queen

A week later, the gym smells of chalk, sweat, and old rubber mats. Regina King drives through another heavy drill, each breath measured, each strike snapping the air clean.

Leo hurries in from the side aisle, disheveled and pale, glancing over his shoulder like he expects trouble to follow him through the doors.

The room tightens around the words. A man in a dark hooded training jacket stops by the far rack of gloves, watching Regina without blinking.

He steps forward at last, jaw set, fists bare and ready, carrying the kind of cold confidence that says he did not come to watch.

Regina’s eyes flick over the hooded newcomer, and her answer is a blur of motion. Her leg whips up in a clean arc, the kick cracking across his jaw and snapping his head sideways.

He staggers back into the open office doorframe, one hand flying up to his face. A sharp metallic clatter answers the impact as the desk phone skids an inch farther from the edge.

The blow wins the room, but the floorboards answer it with a hard thump from the stairwell outside. The shadow on the steps shifts closer, as if someone above heard everything.

A thin line of blood marks the hooded fighter’s lip as he squares back up, fists rising again. The sealed folder with Regina’s name sits half-hidden under the drifting papers, waiting in the draft.