silence stretching out uncomfortably long. "I'm just here to clean, Mr. Vance," Arthur said
quietly, turning back to his mop.
But Julian wasn't about to let it go. He grabbed the handle of the mop, stopping Arthur
in his tracks. "Come on. Don't be a coward. Five minutes. I promise I won't put you in the
hospital... maybe."
Mr. Henderson, the gym owner, scurried over, looking panicked. "Julian, please, he's
just staff..." But seeing Julian's darkened expression, Henderson faltered. He looked at
Arthur pleadingly. "Arthur, maybe just step in for a minute? Just move around with him.
Don't engage. Keep him happy."
Arthur looked at the gym owner, then at the smirking rich kid. A heavy sigh escaped
Arthur's lips. It was a sigh of a man who had tried very hard to leave his past behind,
only to find it insisting on an encore. "Alright," Arthur said softly.
He let go of the mop. Slowly, methodically, Arthur began to unbutton his faded blue
work shirt. The gym went dead silent. As the fabric slipped off his shoulders, the mocking
smiles vanished from the faces of Julian’s crew.
Arthur’s torso was a roadmap of violence. He wasn't overly bulky, but his musculature
was dense, carved from granite. But it was the scars that drew every eye. Jagged lines
across his ribs, a thick, raised keloid over his collarbone, and the unmistakable, flattened