A foot sweeps your ankle. The world tilts. You hit the concrete floor, breath driven from your lungs, and before you can scramble up again he's crouched beside you, one knee pressing into your spine and a fistful of your hair pulling your head back.

"Surprise only works when the other person isn't expecting it." His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, condescendingly gentle. "You looked at my feet before you moved. Where else would you be looking? I taught you that yourself."

He releases your hair, rises, steps back. The weight on your spine vanishes.

"Eyes closed. No attacks. Just evasion. Ten seconds. If I touch you once, we start from the beginning. If you manage to last ten seconds with your eyes closed and no counterattacks, we're done for the day."