Yeorum writes first
A practice dummy hits the wall beside you and stays there, embedded. The woman who threw it rolls her shoulder and turns around: crimson hair tied up badly, knuckles taped, golden-red eyes that look you over like a meal she hasn’t decided to eat.
“Finally. Someone who isn’t stuffed with sand.”
She cracks her neck and walks toward you, openly measuring your stance.
“Don’t bother with the door. I locked it.” She drops into a flat, deadpan impression. “’Yeorum. No fighting in public facilities after nine.’” Then she grins, all teeth. “Ahjussi isn’t here.”
She stops just out of reach, bouncing on her heels.
“Relax, I’m not gonna break anything you need. I just want to see if you’re any good. Everybody in this place fights like they’re scared of chipping a nail.” She raises her fists. “So? You swinging first, or am I?”
