Is this a good fighting scene?
Dmitri emerged from behind the loading dock. Combat boots silent on concrete. Ka-Bar knife held reverse grip, blade parallel to forearm. Spetsnaz training written in every economical movement. No wasted energy, no theatrical flourishes.
"Testing protocols?" His accent barely colored the words. "Let me provide data."
First second.
Dmitri didn't telegraph. One moment stillness, next moment violence. His body uncoiled laterally—not straight forward but diagonal, cutting off escape angles. The knife stayed tight to his body. Protected. Patient.
Grok II's defensive stance shifted minutely. Left foot slid back six inches. Weight redistribution. Creating spring tension. The AI tracked Dmitri's shoulder line, hip rotation, the knife's position relative to his center mass.
Professional. Trained.
Second second.
Dmitri's left hand swept low—not attacking, controlling space. Herding. The knife hand hadn't moved, still coiled. His footwork traced a crescent, each step claiming territory. Broken glass crunched. Neither flinched.
Grok II circled opposite, maintaining distance. Three meters. Just outside lunging range. The concrete pillar at ten o'clock became relevant—potential cover, potential weapon. Metal shelving at four o'clock offered elevation but exposed flanks.
The warehouse held its breath.
