"Of course."
"And there's a towel in the shower. Make sure you get it."
"All right."
Blake looked at Arthur's work shirt.
"Do you guys ever replace those? It looks like you've had that thing since the building opened."
Arthur glanced briefly at his sleeve.
"It's comfortable."
Blake laughed.
"That's one way to describe it."
He walked away.
Arthur picked up the shaker bottle.
He carried it to the cleaning station, emptied it, and washed it.
Then he retrieved the towel.
He did not look offended.
He did not look angry.
He simply continued working.
From across the room, Marcus Reed watched the exchange.
Marcus was twenty-eight years old and one of Apex's professional coaches.
Unlike Blake, Marcus had earned every inch of his career.
He had started fighting in small regional promotions when he was nineteen. He had won some fights, lost others, and learned the difference between looking impressive and actually being effective.
He had broken his nose twice.
He had torn the labrum in his left shoulder.
He had spent months recovering from an injury that almost ended his career.
He understood what it meant to wake up sore, train anyway, and discover that determination could not replace intelligence.
He had eventually become a respected professional fighter and coach.
Marcus did not have Blake's money.
He did not have a private lounge named after his family.
But he had something Blake had not yet earned.
Credibility.
Marcus had noticed Arthur before.
Not because Arthur demanded attention.
Quite the opposite.
He had noticed him because Arthur moved differently from everyone else in the building.
It was subtle.
Most people would never have recognized it.
But Marcus had spent years studying movement.
He knew the difference between someone who was simply walking through a room and someone who was constantly aware of the space around him.
Arthur never walked directly behind anyone.
He never crossed too close to a fighter who was throwing punches.
He never turned his back on the cage when an active sparring session was underway.
When two members moved toward the same narrow passage, Arthur adjusted his path before either of them realized they were going to collide.
He never appeared surprised by sudden movement.
Even when someone dropped a weight behind him, his shoulders did not jerk.
His body seemed to register the sound before his mind needed to respond.
Marcus had also noticed the way Arthur watched sparring.
Not the way casual members watched.
Not with admiration for powerful punches or excitement over a hard takedown.
Arthur watched feet.
Distance.
Angles.
Breathing.
Balance.
He watched the space between fighters.
He noticed when a boxer dropped his right hand after throwing a jab. He noticed when a wrestler leaned too far forward before changing levels. He noticed when a kickboxer planted his feet too squarely after a combination.
Sometimes, while cleaning, Arthur would stop for half a second.
His eyes would narrow.
Then he would continue wiping the mat.
Marcus had seen it happen several times.
He had begun wondering about the man in the blue shirt.
The first real conversation between them happened on a Wednesday morning.
Marcus had finished a private session and was wrapping his hands before the next class.
Arthur was cleaning the floor near the edge of the cage.
"Morning, Arthur."
Arthur looked up.
"Morning."
Marcus nodded toward the mop.
"Busy day?"
"Looks like it."
"Always does."
Arthur gave a small smile.
Marcus watched him work for a moment.
"How long have you been here?"
"Three years."
"Three years?"
"Almost."
Marcus nodded.
"That's a long time."
"Long enough to know where everything breaks."
Marcus laughed.
"That's probably more useful than knowing where everything is."
Arthur dipped the mop into the bucket.
"Sometimes."
Marcus glanced toward the cage.
"Do you ever train?"
Arthur looked at him.
"What makes you ask?"
Marcus shrugged.
"Just curious."
Arthur returned his attention to the floor.
"Not anymore."
The answer was quiet.
Not defensive.
Not particularly inviting.
Marcus waited.
"Used to?"
Arthur moved the mop slowly across the mat.
"A long time ago."
"What did you train?"
Arthur looked toward the boxing room.
"Different things."
Marcus smiled.
"That's a very specific answer."
"It's an old question."
Before Marcus could ask anything else, the front doors opened.
A group of members entered, laughing loudly.
One of them called Marcus over.
The conversation ended.
But the answer stayed with him.
Not anymore.
It sounded less like a man who had never trained and more like a man who had deliberately stopped.
At 8:15, Blake Harrington entered the cage for a private sparring session.
His training partner was a young amateur fighter named Owen Price.
Owen was twenty-two and had been training at Apex for two years.