To watch Karina White fight is to watch water find a crack in a dam. She does not batter; she infiltrates. Her style is a whisper that cuts. Standing in a low, coiled stance—often compared to a striking cobra—she holds her blade close to her forearm. It is an economy of motion. Every twitch of her finger is a feint; every shift of her shoulder is a lie.

Every parry and riposte is a conversation. Much like a ballet duet, the success of the scene depends on the rhythm established between the two performers.

They break apart. Karina lowers her guard first—a sign of respect, not mercy. Dylan spits out a mouthful of sweat and grins.