But as he stared at the young bully who had just violently concussed a teenager for fun, he felt an ancient, long-buried ember ignite in the deepest part of his chest. It burned hot and bright. He had run from fighting for thirty years. He was tired of running.

Marcus let go of the mop. It clattered loudly against the floor.

"Alright," Marcus said softly, his voice carrying a strange, resonant authority that nobody in the gym had ever heard before. "Three minutes. Just boxing."

The gym instantly erupted into a chaotic mixture of nervous laughter, jeers, and uncomfortable whispers. This was beyond a joke; it bordered on assault. A highly trained, elite killer in his physical prime was about to beat up a middle-aged man who scrubbed floors for a living. Some people pulled out their phones to record the impending disaster. A few of the older coaches looked away, ashamed to be a part of it, but none of them stepped forward to stop it.

One of Victor’s cornermen, laughing hysterically, tossed Marcus a pair of oversized, worn-out sixteen-ounce sparring gloves.

Marcus caught them effortlessly. He didn't ask for hand wraps. He didn't take off his faded gray overalls, nor did he remove his heavy, steel-toed work boots. He simply unbuttoned the top half of the overalls, letting them hang at his waist, revealing his simple white undershirt. He slowly rolled up the sleeves. He slipped his hands into the damp gloves, securing the velcro straps around his wrists with methodical, deliberate precision.

As Marcus walked toward the elevated boxing ring in the corner of the gym, his demeanor changed. The slight stoop in his shoulders vanished. His spine aligned perfectly. He didn't walk like an old man with aching joints; he glided.

He stepped through the ropes, the canvas feeling incredibly familiar beneath the thick soles of his boots. The contrast between the two men standing under the bright overhead lights was almost comical, like a scene from a bad movie.

Victor was a ball of kinetic, aggressive energy. He was bouncing heavily on his toes, throwing lightning-fast, flashy combinations at the air, his muscles gleaming, his eyes wide and manic. He was ready to murder.

Marcus stood absolutely flat-footed in the dead center of the ring. His posture was totally relaxed, almost sleepy. He held his gloved hands loosely near his waist, not even in a traditional guard. His face was a mask of utter calm. He looked out into the crowd of onlookers, his eyes empty of fear, anger, or anxiety. He had entered a state of flow he hadn't felt since the gritty basements of Detroit. The Ghost was awake.

"Don't worry, old timer," Victor laughed loudly, strutting to the center of the ring and aggressively bumping his gloves against Marcus's. "I won't put you in the hospital. I'll just teach you your place in the food chain. Try not to have a heart attack."