Chapter 182
Lynette's POV
The guard's eyes tracked my movement as I circled him slowly. Empty. Mechanical. Like staring at a weapon wearing human skin.
I feinted left toward his ribs.
His body shifted to block—predictable, textbook defensive posture.
I dropped low and swept my leg toward his shins instead.
My foot connected with solid muscle. The impact jarred up through my ankle, but I felt it—that half-second lag before his weight shifted to compensate.
There.
I rolled away before he could grab me, coming up in a crouch several feet back.
The guard's lips curled into something that might have been a smile on a normal person. On him, it just looked wrong.
"Miss," he said, that hollow voice echoing across the platform. "That level of attack wouldn't even count as foreplay."
Laughter rippled through the crowd below.
I ignored it. Ignored the heat creeping up my neck. Ignored everything except the data I'd just collected.
Lower body reaction time: approximately 0.4 seconds slower than upper body.
The researcher was saying something about "observing defensive capabilities," but I tuned him out completely.
Okay. He's fast up top, slower down low. But that skin is like armor plating. Direct strikes won't work.
I needed a different approach.
The guard lunged—faster than I'd expected, closing the distance in two massive strides.
I darted right, my body remembering decades of training even if my conscious mind was still processing. His fist whistled past where my head had been a split second ago.
Too close.
I kept moving, circling around behind him.
His head turned to track me, but his torso took that extra beat to follow through.
There it is again.
I struck—not at his ribs or his gut, but at the base of his spine. Right where the vertebrae met the pelvis. A weak point in any body, no matter how much muscle you packed on.
My foot connected with a satisfying thud.
The guard stumbled forward half a step.
Just half a step. But it was something.
I hit the same spot again. And again.
Each impact sent pain shooting up my leg, but I saw the effect. Saw him struggle to maintain balance. Saw that mechanical precision start to falter.
"Stand still!" he snarled, spinning faster now, trying to catch me.
But I was already gone, already behind him again, already lining up another strike to that same vulnerable point.
This is what you never learned in your sterile lab, I thought coldly. Real combat isn't about raw power. It's about finding the one weak spot and exploiting it until your opponent breaks.
"Damn it!" The guard's voice rose, genuine anger bleeding through that hollow tone. "Fight me properly!"
"Properly?" I couldn't help the sharp laugh that escaped. "You want proper? Come get me then."
He charged—and I was already moving, staying in his blind spot, forcing him to keep turning, keep adjusting, keep exposing that lower back.
My heel connected with his tailbone again.
This time he actually grunted.
Good.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder. Confused. Restless.
"What is she doing?"
"This isn't a real fight!"
"Someone stop this—"
I blocked them out. All of it. There was only the guard, the platform, and the systematic dismantling of an opponent who should have been unbeatable.
The guard suddenly changed tactics. Instead of chasing me, he backed up to the edge of the platform, putting the railing behind him.
Smart.
Now I couldn't circle behind him anymore.
His chest heaved slightly—not from exertion, but from pain. I could see it in the way he held himself, protecting that lower spine.
"I was trying to go easy on you," he said, and for the first time, I heard something almost human in his voice. Rage. "But you really pissed me off."
I kept my distance, hands loose at my sides, weight balanced on the balls of my feet.
"Yeah?" I tilted my head. "So come over here and do something about it."
He didn't move.
Because he knows, I realized with cold satisfaction. He knows if I get behind him again, if I land a few more hits to that spot, something's going to give. Something permanent.
We stood there, maybe ten feet apart, neither willing to make the first move.
The stalemate stretched.
"Are they even fighting anymore?" someone shouted from below.
"This is ridiculous!"
"What kind of demonstration is this?"
The guard's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. But he stayed where he was, back pressed to the railing.
I smiled slowly. "What's wrong? Thought you said my attacks were nothing. So why are you hiding over there?"
In the front row below, I could feel Kael's eyes on me. Even without looking, I knew he was analyzing every move, every tactical decision.
He understands, I thought. He sees what I'm doing.
That shouldn't have mattered. Shouldn't have sent that warm flutter through my chest.
But it did.
The researcher hurried over, his professional smile strained at the edges. "Perhaps we should—"
"I'm not done," I said flatly.
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Neither am I."
But he still didn't move from his defensive position.
The crowd's restlessness grew louder. This wasn't the spectacle they'd paid to see. No dramatic violence. No overwhelming display of the enhanced soldier's superiority.
Just a woman systematically exposing the flaws in their "perfect weapon."
I caught movement in my peripheral vision—someone pulling out their phone, typing rapidly.
Reporting back to whoever's in charge, I thought. Good. Let them scramble.
The guard shifted his weight slightly, testing. Seeing if I'd take the bait and rush in.
I didn't.
We stayed locked in our stalemate, and with every second that passed, I could see the doubt spreading through the crowd below.
This is what you really are, I thought, staring at the guard's empty eyes. Not unstoppable. Not perfect. Just another weapon with exploitable weaknesses.
And I'd just shown everyone in this room exactly how to find them.
The guard's breathing had gone rough now. Shallow. His fingers twitched.
"Come on," I said softly, just loud enough for him to hear. "You know you want to. You're so angry you can barely think straight. So stop hiding and come at me."
His whole body tensed.
The crowd was getting louder now. Impatient. Demanding action.
"This is boring!"
"When's the real fight?"
"I didn't pay for this—"
I caught a glimpse of movement in the back corner. A man with sharp features and cold eyes, staring at me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
Rezar.
Our eyes met for just a second.
His face went through a series of micro-expressions—shock, rage, then carefully controlled neutrality.
Yeah, I thought grimly. It's me. Still alive. Still here. And I'm not hiding anymore.
The exhibition hall doors burst open.
A man in an immaculate white suit strode in, flanked by two guards. His dark hair was slicked back, and those cold blue eyes swept across the room before landing on the platform.
On me.
Belser.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Well," he said, his voice carrying easily despite not being amplified. "This is certainly more interesting than I expected."
The researcher immediately stepped forward. "Sir, I apologize for the disruption—"
Belser held up one hand, silencing him without a word.
Those blue eyes stayed fixed on me.
I forced myself to stay still. To meet his gaze. To show nothing.