The two shared a glance, and something unspoken passed between them.
The scar was unusual. It curved from the outer corner of Agrippa's left eye toward his cheekbone, pale against his weathered skin. There were other marks too: a small indentation near his right eyebrow, thickened cartilage around both ears, and knuckles that had healed slightly crooked.
Mason had seen those features before.
Not on an ordinary laborer.
On old fight posters.
On highlight reels shared by combat-sports fans.
He zoomed in with his phone.
Agrippa noticed the movement.
"Don't."
Mason paused.
"Don't what?"
"Put my son's face online."
Mason smirked. "Then stop giving me a show."
He tilted the phone toward Agrippa and tapped the screen, apparently searching for something.
A few seconds passed.
His expression changed.
At first, he looked confused. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth slowly opened.
"Wait a second."
Trent turned.
"What now?"
Mason did not answer.
He was staring at the screen.
The image displayed a younger man standing beneath a row of bright arena lights, one hand raised by a referee. His opponent's blood marked the canvas, and a championship belt rested around his waist.
The caption beneath the image read:
AGRIPPA FISHER — THE IRON WOLF — CLAIMS THE NORTH AMERICAN MIDDLEWEIGHT TITLE.
Mason looked up.
Then down again.
Then up.
"No way."
Trent frowned.
"What?"
Mason held out the phone.
"Look at this."
Trent glanced at the screen, unimpressed.
"Some fighter."
"Not some fighter."
Mason swallowed.
"That's Agrippa Fisher."
Cole stepped closer.
"Who?"
Mason stared at him.
"The Iron Wolf. He won the title seven years ago. He was undefeated for almost three years. My older brother used to watch his fights."
Denny laughed uncertainly.
"You're telling me this old guy was a champion?"
Agrippa closed his eyes for a brief moment.
He had hoped the name would remain buried.
Not because he was ashamed of it, but because it belonged to a life he had worked hard to leave behind.
"That's enough," he said.
Mason ignored him.
He began scrolling, excitement replacing the earlier mockery.
"Look at this knockout. Oh, man. Trent, you need to see this."
On the screen, a younger Agrippa moved across a cage with astonishing speed. His opponent charged. Agrippa shifted his weight, redirected the attack, and delivered a precise counter that ended the contest.
The video lasted less than ten seconds.
The crowd erupted.
Trent watched it twice.
Then he looked at the man standing in front of him.
The faded work shirt.
The gray beard.
The scar.
The damaged knee.
For the first time, he understood that those details might not represent weakness.
They might represent the remains of something formidable.
Still, pride was a powerful thing.
Trent forced a grin.
"So what? You used to fight."
Agrippa said nothing.
"That's cute. You were good at punching people before you got old."
"Trent," Cole warned.
"What? Am I lying?"
"No," Agrippa replied. "You're just wasting your time."
Mason turned the phone back toward himself.
"Tell us what happened. Why'd you quit?"
Agrippa's eyes hardened.
"My career is none of your business."
"Come on, man. We're just curious."
"Then be curious from a distance."
Bryce shifted uncomfortably.
"Maybe we should leave."
Trent looked at him in disbelief.
"You're scared of a guy with a bad knee?"
"I'm not scared."
"Then act like it."
Bryce said nothing.
Trent stepped toward Agrippa again, but this time he did not immediately shove him.
He was thinking.
He had built his identity around the belief that he was the strongest person in almost every room he entered. At the gym, he lifted heavier weights than most of his friends. At parties, he commanded attention. When someone challenged him, he made sure the disagreement ended with the other person apologizing.
Now, without warning, he had discovered that the quiet man he had chosen as a target possessed a history Trent could not compete with.
He could not tolerate it.
"All right," he said. "Let's say you were a champion. That doesn't mean anything here."
Agrippa looked at him.
"You're right."
Trent hesitated.
He had expected an argument.
Agrippa continued.
"It means nothing here. This isn't a cage. There's no referee. No rules to protect you. No doctor waiting outside. No contract explaining what happens if somebody gets hurt."
His voice remained calm.
"And there's a six-year-old boy standing behind me."
Trent glanced toward Larry.
The boy had climbed down from the bench. He stood beside the playground fence, his small hands wrapped around the bars.
"Dad," Larry called softly.
Agrippa turned.
"I'm here, buddy."
"Are those men going to hurt you?"
The question landed harder than any punch could have.
Agrippa felt his throat tighten.
He walked a few steps toward his son, keeping himself between Larry and the group.
"No," he said. "I'm not going to let that happen."
Larry studied his face.
"Promise?"
Agrippa knelt carefully, ignoring the pain in his knee.