I wanted no part of it. I kept my head down. I updated my spreadsheets—until Toby Fisher ran out of options.
Toby was a junior accountant. He was twenty-three, built like a damp paper towel, and wore wire-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. He was also married, and his wife was six months pregnant with twins. Toby was terrified of everything: impending hospital bills, his mortgage, and absolutely terrified of losing his job. Connor smelled the fear on him like a shark tasting blood in the current.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The network servers had gone down on our floor, forcing a rare moment of idle time. I decided to walk down to the basement to retrieve a box of archived tax documents from the remaining storage closet next to the gym.
The basement smelled of fresh rubber mats, eucalyptus surface cleaner, and sweat.
As I approached the storage closet, I heard the sharp, sickening smack of skin hitting synthetic leather. I paused. The gym door was propped open. Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed violently.
Connor was on the mat, shirtless, wearing tight black grappling shorts. His chest was puffed out, slick with sweat. Across from him was Toby. Toby was wearing a pair of baggy gym shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too big. He had 16-oz boxing gloves laced onto his hands. His glasses were off, leaving him squinting blindly. His left cheek was bright red, and a thin line of blood trickled from his nose, dripping over his pale chin.
"Come on, Toby," Connor barked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "You’re dropping your hands. I told you to keep your hands up. In the real world, nobody gives you a warning."
"I’m trying, Connor," Toby wheezed. He could barely hold his arms up. "Can we… Can we take a break?"
"Breaks are for the weak, Toby. You think our competitors take breaks? Push through it. Be a man."
Connor stepped forward, faked a jab, and whipped his right leg up in a roundhouse kick. He didn’t pull the strike. The heavy shin slapped directly into Toby’s thigh. Toby cried out, a high pathetic yelp, and collapsed into a fetal position, clutching his leg.
"Get up," Connor sighed, rolling his eyes in exaggerated disappointment. He looked over at a few mid-level managers standing awkwardly by the water cooler, forcing them to chuckle along. "Unbelievable. Five minutes in and he’s crying on the floor."
I didn’t make a conscious decision to move. My body just reacted. Years of conditioned response bypassed my brain entirely. I set the empty cardboard box I was carrying down on a bench. My boots made no sound as I walked onto the pristine mat.
"He’s done," I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the echoing acoustics of the gym like a scalpel.
Connor spun around, his brow furrowing. He looked me up and down, taking in my beige slacks and slightly graying temples. "Cole, right? Data analytics? This is a closed session. Go back to your keyboards."
I didn’t look at Connor. I walked straight past him, knelt beside the trembling kid, and hoisted Toby to his feet, letting him drape his arm over my shoulder.
"Hey!" Connor snapped. His bare feet squeaked on the mat. "I didn’t say the session was over. Put him down."
I turned my head and looked at Connor Prescott. I saw the dilated pupils, the flared nostrils. I saw a boy playing dress-up in the skin of a fighter. For a fraction of a second, the fluorescent lights flickered, and I smelled the copper reek of an Afghan compound. I felt the familiar, cold stillness wash over my spine.