Derek blinked, confused. Then, rage flooded his face. He jumped up, throwing his headset onto the couch.
“You crazy old fool!” he screamed, his face flushing red. “Do you know how much that costs? That was a ranked match!”
He stepped toward me, fists clenched, posturing. He was taller than me, heavier, younger. He thought that mattered.
He swung—a wild, lazy haymaker aimed at my head. It was slow. It was pathetic.
I didn’t even blink.
I stepped inside his guard. My left hand deflected his arm. My right hand shot out, grabbing his throat with a grip like a hydraulic clamp.
I didn’t squeeze to kill. I squeezed to control.
I drove him backward. His heels caught on the rug. I slammed him against the drywall.
THUD.
The house shook. Pictures rattled on the walls.
Derek’s eyes bulged. His toes scrabbled for purchase, hovering inches off the ground. He clawed at my hand, but it was like trying to pry open a steel trap. He gasped, a wet, choking sound.
I leaned in. My face was inches from his. I let him see the eyes of a man who had stared down things much scarier than a suburban bully.
“Listen closely, maggot,” I growled, my voice a low rumble of thunder that vibrated in his chest bones. “Boot camp starts now.“
Derek gasped for air as I released the pressure just enough for him to breathe, but not enough to speak.
“You like playing war, boy?” I whispered. “You like giving orders? Good. Because for the next twenty-four hours, you are going to learn what a real soldier does.”
I dropped him.
