Lieutenant Jake Morrison steps up. He’s twenty-nine, built like a linebacker, and he’s spent his whole life intimidating people just by walking into a room. He cracks his knuckles, a sound like dry twigs snapping, as he moves into position. Lieutenant Brad Connors, thirty-one, flashes a grin that says he thinks this is going to be good entertainment. Lieutenant Mike Chen, a year younger, looks uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to step back. And then there’s Petty Officer Leo Grant, twenty-six. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t scowl. He just adjusts his stance and scans Emma from head to toe, the way a predator sizes up its prey, looking for the first sign of weakness.

They form a loose circle around her, each man about six feet apart. The geometry is perfect. It’s a textbook formation for overwhelming a single opponent, cutting off every angle of escape. It is also, for the record, completely and utterly outside any legitimate training protocol for a resilience assessment. This is a setup.

Lang steps back off the mat, a satisfied little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Standard rules apply,” he calls out. “No strikes to the throat or groin. Everything else is fair game.” He looks at the circle of men, then at Emma in the center. “Begin when ready.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and then the world explodes into motion.

Morrison is the first to move. He’s all power, no finesse. He throws a straight right hand, a piston of a punch aimed right at Emma’s head. It’s the kind of punch that, if it lands, ends the fight. Most people would try to block it, to raise their arms and absorb the force. Emma doesn’t. She just slips to the left, a movement so small and efficient it’s almost invisible. Her head moves maybe six inches. The fist, carrying all of Morrison’s two-hundred-and-twenty pounds behind it, whistles past her temple, close enough for her to feel the air move.’