Mensah had barely stopped bouncing before Amunet was on him again.
He rolled onto one shoulder and came up with his fists already raised, the shift from ridiculous womanizing idiot to trained fighter happening so smoothly that Grey's amusement dimmed into genuine interest.
Mensah's feet settled beneath him in a compact stance, his shoulders loosened, and when Amunet's rapier stabbed toward his throat, he slipped outside the line by such a narrow margin that the blade shaved past his cheek without drawing blood.
'Okay, he's actually good.'
Grey had noticed it during the recap, but seeing Mensah fight in person made the difference much clearer. His fists were his weapons, yet the foundation underneath them was unmistakably boxing, his head constantly shifting off center as he stepped, rolled, and returned punches from angles that made every defensive movement part of his next attack.
