The air in the high-end dojo is heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Twelve men lie scattered across the polished mahogany floor like broken dolls, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Sandra stands in the center of the carnage and slowly adjusts the lapels of her dark blue trench coat. Her glossy red bodice is pristine, without a single drop of blood or a stray thread to indicate she had just dismantled a squad of elite mercenaries. She looks down at the man closest to her boots and notes the precise bruising at the base of his skull where her palm had made contact.
She doesn't feel pride or exhaustion as she surveys the room. She only feels a slight sense of disappointment that the encounter ended in less than two minutes. She had hoped the leader of this group would provide a momentary challenge to her defensive transitions, but he had telegraphed his opening strike with a clumsy shift in his weight. She pulls on her dark grey gloves and ensures the cuffs are folded neatly at her wrists. "You had the numbers, but you lacked the spirit to match your ambition," she says to the silent room. She turns away from the bodies and walks toward the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city.
