Double Stance

I stepped off the towel and hit the polished floorboards, tracking a clear perimeter. Right against the baseboard stood a full-length mirror angled low. Another heavy hitter was locked right in my path, squared up shoulder to shoulder. I dropped into a combat crouch. He dropped low at the exact same split-second. I drove a sharp right fist forward—he matched it instantly, glove for glove, zero hesitation. No flinching, no backing down. I stomped my right sneaker hard into the oak. The timing snapped clean and dead even. We held the line without blinking. The room is locked down twice over.