Nolan didn't waste time. The moment the kid agreed to be taught, his demeanor shifted—casual sarcasm melting into something sharper. He cracked his knuckles and motioned the student to stand on the open floor where the desks had been pushed aside. The air inside the classroom suddenly felt heavier, as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what kind of teacher this man really was.
"First," Nolan said, rolling up the sleeves of his coat, "you learn to evade."
He stepped toward the boy with deliberate steps, measuring, watching his posture, how he kept leaning on one leg, how he looked down, how his hands were barely raised.
"No stance. No balance. No rhythm. You're asking to get flattened," Nolan muttered, then took a deep breath.
He stepped in fast, raised a fist, and threw a punch—but stopped an inch before contact.
"Wrong!" he barked.
The student had flinched. Not dodged. Just stiffened in place, squeezed his eyes shut and waited for impact.
