I hadn't brought gym clothes. I had simply taken off my button-down shirt, leaving me in a plain, fitted gray undershirt, my beige work slacks, and a pair of flat-soled canvas sneakers.
The room fell dead silent as they noticed my arms. For three years, I had hidden them under long sleeves. The thick, jagged burn scar wrapping around my left forearm and the faded shrapnel gouges on my right shoulder were suddenly on full display.
Connor stopped kicking the bag. He smirked, though it looked slightly tighter than before. "Glad you could make it, Cole. Thought you might have packed up your desk."
"I like my desk," I said, stepping onto the mat.
"Here's how this works," Connor announced, projecting his voice for the executives. "We're going to do a light sparring session. Three minutes. MMA rules. It's about testing your pressure threshold under stress. You ready?"
"Are we wearing gloves?" I asked, keeping my voice mild, almost bored.
Connor laughed. "Gloves? Cole, in the corporate jungle, nobody gives you padding. Bare knuckle. Unless you're scared?"
"Bare knuckle is fine," I said. I let my hands hang loosely at my sides.
"Fight!" Connor barked.
Connor didn't waste a second. He wanted a highlight reel. He lunged forward, throwing a textbook one-two combination followed by a high, sweeping roundhouse kick aimed directly at my temple. It was fast. It was flashy.
It was entirely predictable.
I didn't block it. I simply took a half-step forward and to the left, inside the arc of his leg. The kick whipped harmlessly past the back of my head. Connor’s momentum spun him slightly off balance.
Before he could plant his foot, I drove the palm of my right hand directly into his sternum.
I didn't use full force—if I had, I would have stopped his heart. I used just enough kinetic energy to lift him off his feet. Connor flew backward, crashing onto the mat with a heavy, breathless thud. All the air rushed out of his lungs in a sickening whoosh.
The crowd gasped. William Prescott stood up, his coffee spilling onto his shoes.
Connor scrambled to his feet, his face flushed dark red with humiliation. The aesthetic alpha was gone; now he was just angry. He charged me with a sloppy double-leg takedown attempt, trying to bring the fight to the ground where he thought his Jiu-Jitsu would save him.
As he dove for my hips, I stepped back, framing my forearm against his collarbone. I let him push forward, using his own weight against him, and pivoted. I grabbed the back of his neck, snapped him down, and locked in a front headlock.