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Will walked up carrying a loaded tray—spaghetti and a couple of hot dogs. He'd clearly brought extra for Lawson.
But the moment he spotted Jane standing next to him, Will froze, looking suddenly and painfully awkward.
"Uh… am I interrupting something?"
Lawson's eyes zeroed in on the food like a heat-seeking missile. The two massive cheeseburgers he'd just demolished hadn't even made a dent.
The Iron Man Trump Card gave him superhuman endurance and durability, but it came with a brutal caloric tax. His stomach was basically a bottomless pit. Twelve straight hours of running had left him ravenous.
"Will! Perfect timing. That for me?"
"Yeah, but it looks like you already—"
Before Will could finish, Lawson snatched the spaghetti and hot dogs right off the tray.
"Thanks, man! I was still starving."
Jane stared at him in pure disbelief.
"Lawson, you literally just ate two giant cheeseburgers!"
"Jane, I've got a massive appetite," he said smoothly between bites. "Probably why my stamina is off the charts."
Jane nodded thoughtfully, buying the excuse completely. "That makes sense. I've heard professional athletes have to eat insane amounts of calories."
"Exactly."
Lawson formally introduced Jane and Will. They shook hands, keeping things politely neutral.
Both were Ivy League grads—Jane with a bachelor's in pre-law before the Academy, Will with a Master's in Psychology. On paper they should have clicked. In reality, they had zero chemistry. Will was too introverted and socially stiff to keep a conversation alive.
Jane, on the other hand, was endlessly fascinated by Lawson. She kept firing questions at him, and he answered every one with patience. He genuinely liked her personality—high-class, well-mannered, effortless to talk to.
And honestly, what guy in his right mind turns down a beautiful woman who wants to talk to him?
---
Lawson's twelve-hour marathon delayed the official start of the physical training phase by a full day.
And just like that, he became an instant legend at Quantico.
Even in Tier-One military units, guys who could run twelve hours straight without stopping were basically unicorns.
What made it crazier was that Lawson walked away completely fine, while Chief Instructor Peggy Gray was so drained she had to take a mandatory sick day.
Everyone had assumed the handsome Asian kid was another tech-track nerd like Will. Instead, he turned out to be an absolute monster.
That single flex bought him instant, deep respect from the entire recruit class.
Americans worship raw physical power. It's why pro athletes are often more revered than Hollywood stars.
Once the grueling month-long physical conditioning phase officially began, Lawson's free time vanished. He barely had time for quick chats with Jane in the mess hall—she was on a completely different advanced-track schedule.
After a few days of standard PT, Lawson realized the baseline routines did nothing for him. His enhanced stats made the requirements feel like a warm-up.
So he started putting in extra hours.
"Lawson. You said you figured out what you wanted for your reward?"
"I did, Ma'am."
Peggy stood in an olive-drab tactical t-shirt, arms crossed tightly over her chest, which only emphasized her intimidating physique.
"Let's hear it."
"Ma'am, word around the yard is you're the deadliest hand-to-hand combatant on base. I want you to teach me how to fight."
Peggy's expression shifted—mild surprise mixed with something almost disappointed.
After his slick comment the other day, she had fully expected him to cash in the bet for a date. The fact that he only wanted combat tutoring was… unexpected.
And honestly, a little disappointing. Lawson was gorgeous, built like a Greek god, and clearly had insane stamina. Even if it was just a casual fling, Peggy knew she wouldn't be the one losing out.
Lawson caught the subtle shift in her eyes instantly.
"What's wrong, Ma'am? You thought I was actually going to ask you out? Getting nervous?"
Women are complicated. Hit on them and you're a creep. Don't hit on them and they question their own attractiveness and get annoyed.
It's a constant psychological tug-of-war. Even a hardened badass like Peggy wasn't immune.
"Ha! Don't flatter yourself, kid."
"Hey, I'm just playing the long game," Lawson grinned. "Figure if I learn to fight properly, I can earn that date with you fair and square."
That finally pulled a genuine smile from her.
"You're gonna need a hell of a lot of practice for that. Follow me."
She led him to the indoor CQB facility.
The gym was packed with heavy bags, grappling dummies, and several padded sparring rings. Even though the official training day was over, plenty of recruits and instructors were still grinding extra reps.
Peggy climbed into an empty ring and tossed him a pair of MMA-style grappling gloves—open-finger, perfect for striking, clinching, and submissions.
"Get in here. I need to see your baseline before I rebuild you."
She was taking it seriously. She planned to custom-tailor his training.
Of course, there was also a very high chance she just wanted an excuse to beat the hell out of him for making her pass out on the track.
Lawson strapped the gloves on, expression turning slightly weird.
His actual martial arts technique was pure street-brawling garbage. But his terrifying physical stats meant even a mountain like Ray Gaines couldn't put him down easily.
Granted, Ray hadn't been trying to kill him. Against a real elite killer, his lack of technique would be a massive liability.
"You sure about this?" Lawson asked.
"Stop stalling! If you're scared of getting hurt, I promise I'll go easy on you."
Lawson shook his head, tightening the Velcro. The gloves were mostly there to prevent lethal damage—an unprotected strike from a heavy hitter could shatter a skull.
"No need to hold back, Ma'am. I actually want to see exactly where I stand."
"Is that right? Be careful what you wish for."
The sight of a male recruit stepping into the ring with the female Chief Instructor instantly drew a crowd. Peggy had a massive reputation on base—everyone wanted to watch the show.
"Ha! Peggy, having a bad day? Taking it out on a rookie?" A loudmouth instructor named Tommy leaned against the ropes, grinning. "If you ask me, you just need to get laid!"
Peggy shot him a lethal glare.
"Shut your mouth, Tommy. Why don't you get in the ring and say that?"
"Pass! I actually want to chew my dinner tonight! Hey, let's get a pool going! How long does the rookie last? Twenty bucks on one minute!"
"Ha! Tommy, you're giving the pretty boy too much credit! I say thirty seconds, tops!" another guy shouted.
"Two minutes!" someone else yelled. "Maybe he knows some secret Chinese Kung Fu!"
The crowd eagerly started placing bets. Not a single person put money on Lawson.
On paper, Lawson held every physical advantage.
Gender: Men generally have higher bone density and fast-twitch muscle fiber.
Size: Lawson was 6'2". Peggy was barely 5'11". Massive reach and height edge.
Weight: In pro fighting, a few pounds difference puts you in a different weight class for a reason—mass equals power.
Yet the entire crowd believed Peggy would dismantle him. That meant her technique was so lethal it completely negated biological advantages.
Lawson sharpened his focus.
"You ready?" Peggy asked, eyes narrowing. Her entire aura shifted into something dangerous. She looked like a leopard about to pounce.
"Whenever you are."
"Alright. Tommy, you loudmouth piece of shit, get in here and ref."
"My pleasure!"
Tommy hopped over the ropes and laid out the ground rules—standard sparring restrictions. No groin strikes, no eye gouges, no lethal throat shots.
"Fighters ready?"
"Ready."
They raised their hands. Lawson dropped into a sloppy, amateurish boxing stance. The sheer clumsiness of it made several veteran instructors outside the ring laugh out loud.
"Three, two, one… fight!"
Peggy didn't rush. She held her ground, reading his movements.
"Come on, kid. Show me what you've got."
Lawson stepped in and threw a straight right.
The punch was powerful but wildly telegraphed. More laughter rippled through the crowd. Anyone with eyes could see he was a complete amateur.
Peggy slipped it effortlessly, stepping off the center line. She looked genuinely disappointed.
"Is that it?"
"Ma'am, I told you I don't know how to fight," Lawson said calmly, resetting his stance. "But I'm incredibly good at taking a hit. Want to test it?"
Peggy had never heard a fighter brag about being a human punching bag. She assumed he was mocking her.
"Alright. Let's see how much punishment you can take."
The Chief Instructor went on the offensive.
She wasn't a freak like Daisy, but her strikes were brutally fast, precise, and packed with concussive power—more than enough to put an average man to sleep.
She unleashed a blistering combo: jabs, crosses, low kicks.
Lawson didn't even try to block. He just ate them.
Thwack! Smack! Crack!
Dozens of clean, heavy shots to the ribs, legs, and jaw, and Lawson didn't take a single step back. His posture never buckled. He didn't even flinch.
Peggy felt like she was hitting a brick wall.
The laughter outside the ring died instantly. The crowd fell into stunned silence.
Fighting isn't a video game. Every strike accumulates damage. Pain makes you flinch, form breaks, speed drops. Eventually the body shuts down.
Lawson was ignoring the laws of biology.
Remembering how he had run for twelve hours straight, Peggy realized blunt-force trauma wasn't going to work. She'd exhaust herself before she bruised him.
Refusing to let a rookie humiliate her twice, she stepped back and dropped her hands.
"Alright, kid. Your durability is genuinely insane. But the warm-up is over. I'm not holding back anymore."
"Bring it."
Lawson wanted to see exactly why she was the most feared instructor on base. So far, her striking hadn't impressed him.
A split second later, Peggy exploded forward.
Lawson braced for a high strike, but she changed levels instantly. She hit a flawless sliding takedown, wrapping her muscular legs around his lead ankle and twisting violently.
Lawson realized immediately—she was dragging him into deep water. Ground fighting.
Grappling used to be dismissed as uncinematic, but modern MMA had proven elite ground fighters could dismantle bigger, stronger strikers.
Judo and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu didn't rely on brute force—they used leverage, joint locks, and chokes.
When Ray had pinned him before, Lawson had escaped with raw explosive leg strength. But Peggy was a master.
Before he could react to the sweep, she scrambled up his back like a spider, sank her hooks in, and wrapped an arm tight under his chin.
Flawless Rear-Naked Choke.
Blood flow to his brain cut off instantly. Violent, suffocating pressure crushed his throat.
But the Iron Man card kept his muscles powered even as oxygen dropped. He drove brutal elbows backward into her ribs.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Even with his face turning purple, the strikes landed like sledgehammers. Peggy gasped—her ribs felt like they were about to crack.
Unable to hold the choke under that damage, she transitioned smoothly. Released his neck, spun her hips, swung her heavy thigh over his face, and violently hyperextended his right arm against her pelvis.
Textbook Armbar.
A devastating joint lock. Using her entire body weight and leverage against his isolated elbow, she could dislocate or snap it in half.
The pain was blinding. Lawson had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming.
BJJ was the perfect counter to his raw stats. It let Peggy neutralize his strength by turning his own anatomy against him.
But Lawson refused to quit. He glanced at the crowd of instructors who had bet against him, and stubborn pride flared in his chest.
"Hey, kid!" Tommy yelled from above. "If you want to quit, just tap the mat!"
Technically the match had already lasted ten minutes. No one had bet he'd make it past two. He had already won.
But Lawson wanted to crush every expectation.
Enduring the agony in his elbow, he engaged every ounce of core strength and slowly—millimeter by millimeter—began to curl his arm, physically fighting against Peggy's entire body weight.
It was supposed to be impossible. The whole point of an armbar is that raw strength can't break it—you need technical escapes.
One minute… two minutes… three minutes…
Peggy was drenched in sweat, muscles screaming. Maintaining that high-tension lock burned massive stamina.
Lawson had infinite stamina.
Finally, after five grueling minutes of pure isometric hell, Peggy's legs gave out. She released his arm and collapsed onto her back, completely spent.
"I… I tap out."
---