The gym was a relic, like something from an old fight movie—creaky floors, walls that smelled faintly of sweat and iron, and just enough life left to keep it standing. I’d cleaned it up just enough to make it usable, but not enough to lose that edge. This wasn’t a place for pampered kids or weekend warriors; this was the real deal, in the heart of a district that didn’t know the meaning of “safe.”
Tonight, I was late. Got held up by… let’s call it “business.” But no worries—Electra, my right-hand girl, was already running the class. I could hear her from the hallway, voice steady and strong, the kind of voice that commands attention.
Electra: “Knee!”
Class, in unison: “Groin!”
Electra: “Knee!”
Class: “Groin!”
I pushed open the double doors, and there they were—a row of teenage girls, all eyes focused, legs set, fists clenched. Rough kids, most of them, with that far away look in their eyes like they’d seen too much, trusted too little. My kind of crowd.
Electra spotted me and nodded. “Class, your instructor, Miss Rebel Vale.”
I didn’t waste time on a speech. Instead, I dragged my “volunteer” in behind me—a lowlife street thug I’d picked up outside the gym, one of those guys who thinks he’s invincible because he can throw a punch and has a face that only a mother could love.
I let go of him, pretending I’d lost my grip. He lunged at me, like the idiot he was, and I shifted my feet just right—smooth as a cat—and drove my knee right up between his legs. Crunch. His face twisted up, like he’d swallowed a lemon dipped in battery acid, and he went down hard, clutching himself, writhing around on the floor. The girls were dead silent, jaws dropped, eyes wide.
I let the moment sink in before I addressed the class. “So, girls, raise your hand if you want me to teach you how to do that.”
They were still staring, but slowly, one by one, every hand went up.
“Great,” I said, grinning. “And don’t worry about Greb here. He’s a lowlife, the kind of guy who might think he’s a big deal on these streets but doesn’t stand a chance when he meets someone prepared. And that’s what you’re going to be.”
Electra quipped “See you never, buddy,” as she dragged Greb out, leaving me with a room full of wide-eyed girls, still buzzing from the spectacle. I looked them over, sizing them up, letting them feel the weight of the silence. Then I started in, my tone steady, serious.
“Alright, listen up. This isn’t your typical self-defense class. Forget all that fancy-schmancy kung fu stuff. The world out there? It’s not gonna give you time to line up a perfect kick or pull some move from a superhero flick. Out there, you’re gonna need something you can rely on every single time.”
I could see some of them nodding, others leaning forward, hanging on every word. Good. That’s how I wanted them—focused, hungry.
“Self-defense isn’t just about kicks and punches. It’s a state of mind. The knee to the groin is a metaphor for life. When someone tries to push you down, you push right back—hard. But listen, it’s not just about brute force. Timing, placement, intent—those are the marks of a master. Anyone can throw a cheap shot, but it takes finesse to create… impact.”
They were leaning in now, a mix of awe and respect on their faces. Perfect.
“A knee to the groin, when executed properly, is poetry in motion. A fleeting moment of shock, a brief symphony of pain, and, if you’re lucky, a lasting memory.” I paused, letting that sink in, and then grinned. “Alright, that’s enough talk for today. Next week? We get practical. We’ll work on the footwork, the stance, the angle of attack. By the time I’m done with you, you girls will be cracking nuts like you were born to do it. Oh, and for a little homework, catch my Knee’d to Know podcast. Don’t worry, it’s all killer, no filler—just the kind of wisdom you don’t get from your run-of-the-mill ‘self-defense’ classes.”
A couple of them snickered, others looked a bit nervous, but every single one of them was paying attention.
“So, remember this: out there, not everyone’s got your back. But you’ve always got your knee. Use it well.”
As they started to gather their stuff, Electra came over, smirking. “Nice entrance.”
I smiled back. “It got these girls on the edge of their seats.”
Electra chuckled, nodding to the door where she’d left Greb. “Think he’ll be back?”
I raised an eyebrow. “If he’s smart, he won’t.”
And with that, the girls filtered out, a little tougher, a little sharper, and, if I did my job right, ready to look this rough city in the eye and let it know: they’re not backing down. Not now, not ever.