“You do have experience, though?” he asks.

“Not with weapons. But I started with hand to hand when I was ten.” I hook the nunchucks back, not a weapon I’d ever choose. Other than fists, give me a sharp blade.

Flanagan leans his shoulder against a patch of clear wall, a little too close for comfort, and studies my face. I force my eyes away from scanning his tall form for the twentieth time. I can feel the edges of a Haze. If I ogle those bulging muscles too much, I’ll be climbing the man.

“Who introduced you to martial arts?” he asks.

I run my hand down the length of a katana. “John. My adoptive dad. I got myself suspended from school for fighting—the first week he took me in. My third suspension in three years.” I sneak a peek at Flanagan’s face, expecting some kind of judgment, but he’s just listening. “I was sure he would beg the agency to place me with another family. I’d only been with him for four days. That night I took a bike from his neighbours garage and ran away. Pedaled as fast as my little legs could on a bike meant for a six-year-old…” I trail off, remembering the cold rain and the burn in my thighs.

“How far did you get?”

“About three miles outside town. Then it turned dark. It was pissing down with rain. I had no jacket, no food, and no hope. So I turned around and pedaled back to face the heat.” I pull a small sickle from its hook and examine the ornate blade carved with swirling symbols.

“And what happened?”

“And nothing. When I slunk back into the house through the back door, John was drinking tea at the kitchen table. He told me he’d saved dinner and asked if I wanted a bigger bike. I’d never known anything like it.”

“You expected a scolding?”

“I expected a beating. Wouldn’t be the first. But he brought me dry clothes and lit a fire so I wouldn’t be cold. Then warmed my dinner.” I shake my head at the memory. “I spilled the beans. Told him all about the boy I’d put in hospital—a hard-nosed shit who preyed on shy girls and anyone weaker. John listened without saying a word. He just nodded and hummed and let me go to bed. The next day he took me to the kickboxing club. Said if I was going to fight, I needed to know how to do it properly. I never looked back. Changed my life.”

“Where is John now?”

“Dead,” I say, picking at a scratch in a throwing star. “Heart attack. When I was eighteen.”

Flanagan goes quiet. I feel his attention like heat on my face. When I check, his eyes have softened, anger exchanged for something else.

“I’m sorry, Michael. That must have been very painful.”