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"Weapon of choice?"
I stared at the table in front of me. I had seen it a thousand times, or tens of thousands, but the current predicament it was in made it not the thousand and one, but the first look at something completely different. It was covered with weapons, magazines and cartridges and loose bullets that would roll over the side if the delicate arrangement was disturbed even in the slightest.
I looked back up at Jungkook. He was just as emotionless as ever, with the same blank veneer veiling a layer of fire. As I looked at him, he raised a single eyebrow, waiting, but didn't repeat the question. That was his way—if you didn't catch it at first, it usually wasn't worth repeating it.
My gaze fell back to the table. Choice? I thought sardonically, but no smile reached my lips. No one has a choice out there in the field. You fight with what you have. Despite my thoughts, my eyes strayed to the lone knife on the table. It was small, not particularly sharp, one I recognized from my own kitchen. It seemed stupid to fight with it, but there was no other option. Guns made me feel too detached. Knuckledusters? Too close. There was no way I was picking up a sword. I had never seen a criminal fight with actual swords. They were too long, too hard to wield.
"Knife," I said. Was that even a question?
Jungkook nodded once, his eyes on me, and I got the message. With slow movements, I picked up the knife. It was light and familiar in my hands, but only from years of cutting up vegetables. I couldn't even imagine cutting a person with it, much less actually do it.
"Make sure you're with a weapon you can actually see yourself using," he said, as if he'd read my mind. But I didn't hesitate in my choice. Even if I wasn't comfortable with the knife yet, I would be soon. And, anyway, it wasn't like I could use any of the others.
"Good," he said softly, pushing aside the table as I took a couple of steps back, positioning myself for a fight. Bullets clattered to the floor as I got ready. Feet wide, but not too wide, not in line, but aligned with my shoulders. Body low, but not bent at the torso. Jungkook reached into his weapons belt, and pulled out a long knife—great—and slid it out smoothly, occupying the same stance as I had.
His eyes met mine, velvety and dangerous, like a panther in the night. He scanned me from head to toe, and I felt revulsion rising in me like a tide. His gaze wasn't perverse, but it was invading, like he was getting all up in my face without even stepping close to me. "Stance is important," he said, "but not more than mobility. You have to stay fast and light, cat-like, on the pads of your feet."
He lunged at me scarcely before he finished his words, blade raised, and I spun to avoid the knife. I had not been expecting it, which had delayed my reaction, and the edge caught the crest of my cheek. It didn't sting, but I knew that would come soon. I reached up to touch the cut with disbelief, disbelief that he had actually hurt me on purpose. It was shallow, and had worked to cut my confidence more than my skin.
