KNOCKOUT

II: MATCHMAKER

THE PERSON WHO PROPOSES, SELECTS, AND ARRANGES THE FIGHTS 

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RIGHT. LEFT. RIGHT. RIGHT. LEFT. The punching bag jerks and twists after each blow.

The room is silent save for her panting and the steady thud of her hands relentless attacking the punching bag. Zenon throws each punch with a deadly force.

Sweat slowly trickles down her back as she swings faster, kicks higher—until the thuds become a rhythmic beat and she feels like she's two parts of a whole. Like her mind has separated from her body—there's no thinking, no calculating—not when everything has become less of a thought and more of an instinct.

She's a perpetual motion machine that lives for these moments when she can just tuck herself in a pocket of time and not have to worry about anything else.

Every sound made in the training room echoes. With solid steel walls longer than the length of a football field, scuff marks and scratches from countless knife-throwing contests adorn the surface. Weapons—knifes, bows, swords, staffs—are neatly placed in their proper sheaths lined against the walls. Yoga mats rest rolled up in the corner and punching bags hang like teardrops from the ceiling.

Finally, when her lungs are burning, and her chest feels like it's collapsing, Zenon stops. Hearing her own harsh breaths, she blinks away sweat and wipes her eyes. Then she rips her boxing gloves off and tosses them aside. She grabs her towel from the floor to wipe the rivulets of sweat from her face and neck and then throws that on the ground too.

She walks the edge of the training room and stops at where the assortments of different exotic swords are displayed on the wall. She picks up a blade longer than her entire forearm. Gripping the handle made of painted black wood and engraved with carvings of dragons, she tests the weight of it against her hand as she walks to the training mat in the middle of the room.

While most people these days prefer using guns or long-range rifles to kill their targets, Zenon doesn't like them—they're unreliable and plus, she was raised using blades. In the end, it doesn't matter, really—a blade can pierce skin just as easily as a bullet.

Zenon looks around for a blindfold. She finds a piece of fabric on top of a bench and ties it around her eyes. She remembers what her grandfather told her many years ago. Good swordsmen watch their surroundings, a great swordsman doesn't have to.

So Zenon closes her eyes beneath the blindfold and takes a deep breath to relax her muscles. She's hyperaware of the cool air coming from the AC vents, of the steady rain hitting the rooftops, of the ticking clock getting closer and closer to dawn with each passing second as she begins to move.

       Zenon loses track of time. She's swinging, and stabbing, and ducking. She's rolling, falling, cutting. She's fighting an invisible opponent, light as air and quicker than a breeze, which is why it's surprising when her sword is suddenly met in mid-swing by another blade.

They clash, and Zenon freezes, then slowly takes three steps back. She smells the familiar scent of peppermint, and her lips curl up into a wicked little smile. Without warning, Zenon lunges forward.

She arcs her sword to the left, only for it to be parried. Zenon finds herself being pushed to the edge of the mat, having blocked a series of counterattacks.

She and her opponent slowly circle each other. With her ability to see gone, Zenon uses this as an opportunity to listen to the soft footsteps of his feet, the smell of mint getting stronger and stronger.