Then he saw one comment near the bottom.
Why is he walking all over the cleaner's work?
Marcus frowned.
He scrolled.
Another comment appeared.
The woman with the mop was the only person in that room acting like an adult.
He closed the app.
Then reopened it.
The video had been shared more than he expected.
There were comments about the training footage, but the discussion was beginning to drift.
Somebody had posted a screenshot of Marcus standing on the freshly mopped section.
Someone else had written:
Imagine thinking being a champion means the rules don't apply to you.
Marcus's jaw tightened.
He sent Neil a message.
MARCUS: Why did you post that angle?
Neil responded almost immediately.
NEIL: It was part of the promo cut.
MARCUS: You could've cropped it.
NEIL: It shows the kick. The floor thing is barely visible.
Marcus stared at the screen.
MARCUS: Take it down.
There was a pause.
NEIL: It's already been shared.
MARCUS: Then take it down anyway.
Neil did not respond.
Marcus tossed the phone onto the bed.
He walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.
His apartment overlooked a busy street near the river. From the balcony, he could see buses, delivery trucks, and people heading to work.
He had bought the apartment two years earlier, after signing his first major fight contract.
He had also purchased a new vehicle, upgraded his wardrobe, and begun attending events where people introduced him by his title.
There had been a time when he lived in a rented room above a laundromat and trained twice a day because he could not afford to waste a single opportunity.
Back then, he had been grateful when anyone held a door for him.
He remembered the first time a promoter called him a future champion.
He remembered Elena staying late to help him work on his footwork.
He remembered his mother bringing food to the gym when he had no money.
He remembered all of that.
But memories were not always enough to keep a person humble.
Sometimes success buried them beneath newer things.
Marcus's phone rang.
His manager, Grant Holloway.
Marcus answered.
"What's up?"
"Are you awake?"
"Obviously."
"Good. We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Last night."
Marcus sighed.
"Not you too."
"Who else?"
"Elena."
Grant made a small sound.
"Well, she's not wrong."
Marcus stared at the kitchen wall.
"Seriously?"
"Marcus, I don't care about the cleaning woman."
"Her name is Althea."
"Fine. Althea. I care about the video."
Marcus went quiet.
Grant continued.
"You've got a title defense coming up. The sponsor is paying for the promotional package. We cannot have a week of social-media arguments about you disrespecting staff."
"It was nothing."
"Then it should be easy to apologize."
Marcus leaned against the counter.
"Why should I apologize?"
"Because you were rude."
"She was rude first."
Grant sighed.
"Do you hear yourself?"
Marcus looked toward the balcony.
"Everybody's acting like I kicked her."
"No. They're acting like you treated her as if her time didn't matter."
"That's ridiculous."
"Maybe. But it's what people are seeing."
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
"Fine. I'll say something."
"Not a sarcastic post."
"I know how to apologize."
Grant was silent.
Then he said, "I'm not sure you do."
The call ended a few seconds later.
Marcus stared at his phone.
For the first time that morning, he felt less angry than unsettled.
He had expected the incident to disappear.
Instead, it was following him.
At Crownline, Althea was already working.
She had arrived at seven fifteen, as usual.
Her first task was to inspect the locker rooms. She checked the showers, replaced empty soap dispensers, and made a note about a loose tile near the men's changing area.
After that, she cleaned the front hallway.
At eight, the first boxing class began.
The gym gradually filled.
A group of teenagers arrived for the youth program. Two older men began stretching near the heavy bags. A woman in a red hoodie came in carrying a baby carrier and asked whether the early fitness class had space.
Althea moved through the building with her cleaning cart.
Most members greeted her.
Some knew her name.
Others called her "Ms. Brooks."
A few simply nodded.
She did not mind any of it.
She had learned to take people as they came.
At eight forty-five, Ben Keller entered the gym.
He was nineteen, lean, slightly awkward, and still carrying the nervous energy of someone who had not yet decided whether he belonged among serious fighters.
He had joined Crownline eight months earlier.
He trained hard.
He listened.
He made mistakes.
And he was the sort of young athlete who apologized when he bumped into a chair.
Althea liked him.
He spotted her near the equipment racks.
"Morning, Ms. Brooks."
"Morning, Ben."
He shifted his gym bag.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
"About last night."
Althea kept wiping the lower shelf.
"What about it?"
"Are you upset?"