She pressed both hands over her burning face.
"I… hate you," she mumbled through her fingers, voice muffled but still sharp.
Sol crouched beside her, forearms resting on his knees. "You lasted longer than I expected. Your footwork is genuinely excellent. But technique only matters if your opponent can't just pick you up and throw you like a kitten."
Zeyra peeked through her fingers, glaring daggers at him. "Next time I'm bringing a knife."
Sol chuckled softly and offered her a hand up. "Next time you'll still be Layer 1. Now get up. It's dirty down here."
Despite the humiliation still painting her face red, Zeyra grabbed his hand and let him pull her to her feet. She brushed the dirt off her tunic with sharp, angry swipes, muttering under her breath the whole time.
Up on the fence, a chorus of loud, booming laughter erupted.
