silent. Even Vance froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. Heads whipped around to find the
source of the voice.
From the shadows of the upper bleachers, a figure began to descend. He was an older man,
perhaps in his late sixties, wearing worn-out jeans and a faded flannel shirt. He walked
with a slight limp, leaning on a wooden cane. But as he stepped into the light, a murmur of
recognition rippled through the older instructors.
The man made his way to the mat with agonizing slowness. Vance, recovering his bravado,
scoffed. "And who are you, old man? The janitor?"
The old man ignored him. He walked straight up to Maya, placing a gentle, calloused hand
on her shoulder. "Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, his voice soft and respectful.
Maya nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "Yes, thank you."