“I heard him,” Derek said, his voice dropping an octave.

“Good,” Walter said, reaching for his spray bottle.

Derek waited, expecting an apology or a retraction. When none came, he pressed on. “That’s

it? You think I went too hard on the kid?”

Walter carefully folded his cleaning towel. “I think Luis did exactly what you asked him to

do. He stepped in to spar. He didn’t step in to help you win an argument with your own

insecurities.”

Silence hung heavy in the pine-scented air. Derek’s smile vanished completely, replaced by a

cold, hard glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Walter said, picking up his supplies.

Derek ducked his head through the ropes and hopped down onto the gym floor, landing

with a heavy thud. He walked right up to the janitor. “You box, old man?”

Walter met his gaze evenly. “Used to.”

Derek barked a harsh, condescending laugh. “Of course you did. Everybody in an old

boxing gym used to be a contender. What were you, an amateur?”

“Yes.”

“How many fights?”

“A few.”

Coach Raymond looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Walter noticed the coach’s

reaction, but Derek was entirely focused on his own mounting fury.

“You win any?” Derek pressed.

“Some.”

Derek sneered. “Man, why do old washed-up fighters always answer like that? Evasive.

Vague.”

“Because the fights are old, and they don't matter anymore,” Walter answered mildly.

One of the young amateurs snorted a laugh, but immediately choked it down when Derek

shot him a lethal glare. Derek turned back to Walter, his ego demanding a sacrifice. “You

want to show me what Luis did wrong? Get in the ring.”

Walter shook his head slowly. “Luis didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You had a lot to say a minute ago.”

“I said one sentence.”

“Come on. Put the gloves on.”

“No.”

“One round.”

“No.”

Derek pointed a gloved hand toward the ring, his voice rising so the entire gym could

witness his dominance. “Sixty seconds.”

Walter looked at the young champion, a trace of pity in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you clearly know something I don’t,” Derek mocked.

Raymond stepped forward, placing a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Derek, stop. Leave him

alone. He’s the janitor.”

But Derek shook off his coach’s hand. He had an audience now, and for a man like Derek, an

audience was oxygen. “I’ll keep it light. Promise.”

Walter offered a small, knowing smile. “No, you won’t.”

Derek’s jaw tightened. “You scared?”

“I’m sixty-one years old,” Walter said matter-of-factly.

“So?”

“So at my age, being careful isn't called fear. It's called intelligence.”

Raymond fought back a smile. Derek, however, had reached the point of no return. He

puffed out his chest and delivered his ultimatum.

“You’ve got one chance to back down,” Derek said, his voice echoing in the rafters.

Walter looked at him.

And then, the old man just smiled.

It wasn’t a sarcastic smile. It wasn’t a nervous twitch. It was a serene, calm smile that

radiated a terrifying kind of peace. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly what was

about to happen.

The entire gym seemed to hold its collective breath. Walter slowly placed his neatly folded

towel on the bench. He turned his head toward Coach Raymond.

“You have a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves?”

C

Chapter 2: The Geometry of Violence

oach Raymond stared at Walter, his face a mask of profound disbelief. “You serious,

Walter? You want to do this?”

“No,” Walter replied honestly. “But apparently, I’m doing this.”

A few chuckles broke the tension, but they died out quickly as Raymond walked toward the

equipment room. Derek grinned, a feral showing of teeth. “Finally.”

Walter sat down on the bench he had just cleaned and began untying his heavy, steel-toed

work boots. He pulled them off to reveal plain, worn black socks. He looked over at young

Luis, who was still standing near the ropes, watching the surreal scene unfold.

“What size are you, son?” Walter asked.

“Nine, sir.”

“Shoes?”

Luis immediately understood. He hurriedly unzipped his gym bag and produced a spare

pair of boxing shoes. He handed them to Walter with a look of immense respect. “Here you

go, Mr. Walter.”

Walter slipped them on. They were a fraction too tight in the toe box, but they would

suffice. Raymond returned carrying a pair of oversized red sixteen-ounce training gloves

and a black sparring headgear. Walter took the gloves but stared at the padded headgear

with distinct disapproval.

“You serious, Ray?” Walter asked.

“You’re sixty-one years old,” Raymond said firmly, echoing Walter's own earlier defense.

Walter sighed deeply. “That number is becoming very popular today. Fine.”

He strapped on the headgear. Derek was already pacing inside the ring like a caged tiger,

bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing violently to stay warm. The younger

fighters, sensing a spectacle, began to edge closer to the ring apron. A few dug into their

gym bags and pulled out smartphones, angling the cameras to record.