Before Morrison can even think about pulling his arm back and resetting his stance, Connors is on her from behind, reaching to grab her shoulder, to lock her down. But it’s like trying to grab a fistful of water. Emma drops her center of gravity, sinking down a good six inches, and rolls her shoulder forward. Connors’s hand clamps down on nothing but empty air.

As he stumbles past, Chen commits to a low tackle. He drives forward, his powerful legs churning, the same legs that have carried him over every obstacle course the Navy could throw at him. This is his world, raw power and forward momentum. But Emma doesn’t meet force with force. She pivots at the hips, a dancer’s move, and uses one forearm across Chen’s upper back to redirect him. He goes careening past her, right into Morrison, who’s still trying to find his balance after his missed punch. The two of them collide in a clumsy tangle of limbs.

For twelve seconds, it’s like watching a magic trick. Emma is water flowing around rocks. She’s not blocking; she’s deflecting. She’s not fighting back; she’s letting them defeat themselves. She reads their attacks before they’re even fully formed, using their own momentum against them, conserving every ounce of her energy while eight men burn through theirs, trying to land just one solid shot.

But then, Leo Grant changes the whole equation.