The Mouse and The Monarch

8

~MOUSE~

In the dimly lit training area, a rhythmic thud echoed as sweat-soaked droplets fell from Ophelia's face.

Ophelia's lithe frame gracefully evaded the powerful swings of Askel.

His mop of long, tousled brown hair grazed the collar of his snugly fitting black tank top.

His piercing brown eyes held a fierce determination as they locked onto Ophelia's agile movements.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting intermittent shadows on the bare concrete walls.

Askel's muscular arms were encased in two black gloves, the leather creaking with each forceful punch he intercepted from her.

His British accent cut through the air, adding a touch of charm to the intense atmosphere.

"Shift your feet, love" he exclaimed with a grin, his voice a perfect blend of encouragement and amusement.

Ophelia, a formidable force in her own right, responded with a series of swift jabs and dodges.

She didn't need to shift her feet. Her stance was perfect.

But men always thought they knew best.

The scent of effort permeated the room as their bodies moved in a synchronized dance.

The sound of their heavy breathing punctuated the otherwise silent space.

She didn't wear any gloves, she never had. Oddly, she liked the pain.

The surface of her knuckles glistened with a mixture of perspiration and determination as she slammed them into the gloves again and again.

The man's laughter reverberated in the confined space as he playfully taunted her.

"You're quick, Mouse,"

Ophelia smirked at his words, her focus unbroken, as she countered with a lightning-fast combination of hooks and uppercuts.

Askel had arrived late that morning, a friendly giant with an infectious sense of humour and eyes that seemed to devour her whole.

He was a flirt.

She encouraged it for fun.

His constructive criticism and lighthearted banter had transformed her sessions into a blend of hard work and amusement.

Initially, she had been ready to punch Askel for his unwanted input.

But her annoyance evaporated when he adjusted her posture with a gentle touch, revealing the keen eye of an experienced trainer.

In that moment of correction, she felt a surge of a newfound alliance.

"Speaking of," Ophelia said, her voice punctuated by the rhythm of her huffed breath.

Her arms flew in a twist of jabs and punches, a dance of controlled aggression.

As Askel observed, he raised a brow, intrigued by the sudden change in topic.

"Tell me more about the Vipers," she said, her movements fluid as she twisted her torso and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick into Askel's waiting glove.

He nodded, recognizing her curiosity and the need for distraction during the rigorous training.

"Notorious faction within the Russian Cartel. Ruthless and cunning, they specialize in covert operations, assassinations, and smuggling."