“Yes,” Marcus replied softly.

“And?”

Marcus finally stopped. He turned to face the

champion.

“When people get tired, they stop hearing ten

corrections at once. Their brain shuts down. They need one

simple thing to focus on.”

The entire room became remarkably quiet. The

background hum of the AC unit suddenly sounded very

loud.

Derek let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

“Oh, you coach now?”

“No.”

“Then how about you stick to cleaning the toilets, and

I’ll stick to coaching the fighters?”

Marcus stared at him for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Fair enough.”

He turned back to the cage door. The exchange should

have ended right there.

But Derek had thirty people watching him. He was the

champion. He couldn't let a janitor have the moral high

ground.

He wanted the last word. He wanted total submission.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Challenge

“So,” Derek goaded, stepping away from Lucas and

moving toward Marcus. “What would you tell him?”

Marcus ignored him, spraying disinfectant onto the

vinyl.

“Come on,” Derek pressed. “You’re the expert.”

No response.

“You had an opinion a second ago. Let's hear it.”

Marcus paused. He lowered the spray bottle and

turned slowly.

“I’d tell him to breathe. Slow down. And focus on doing

just one thing correctly. Step deep. That's all.”

Derek looked at Lucas, feigning deep thought.

Then he looked back at Marcus.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Brilliant,” Derek mocked, clapping his hands slowly.

“Truly groundbreaking stuff.”

Marcus shrugged, his face expressionless.

Marcus wiped the cage. Harder this time.

Derek followed him, stepping onto the newly cleaned

floor with his training shoes.

“State championships?”

Marcus stopped abruptly. He turned. His posture

shifted, just a fraction of an inch, but enough that Coach

Henry, watching from the desk, suddenly sat up straight.

“Derek.”

It was the first time Marcus had ever used the

champion’s name. The word hung heavy in the air.

“I’m working.”

That should have been enough. A boundary had been

drawn. A firm line in the sand.

Instead, Derek took the silence as a blank canvas to

paint his own narrative.

“Probably local tournaments,” Derek laughed, turning

to the crowd. “You guys know how this goes. Every old guy

who did martial arts in a strip mall back in 1997 suddenly

becomes a secret deadly killer when they get a gray beard.”

A few people laughed. It was nervous, uncomfortable

laughter, but it fueled Derek anyway.

Marcus did not laugh. He didn't even blink.

Lucas, standing nearby, looked utterly miserable. He

felt responsible for this.

Rachel Kim pushed her way through the crowd and

stepped onto the mat.

“Derek. That's enough,” she commanded, her voice

sharp.

Derek raised both hands in a gesture of innocence.

“Hey, I’m just joking around! Can't a guy joke around in

his own gym?”

Rachel ignored him and looked at Marcus.

“You okay, Marcus?”

“I’m fine, Rachel. Thank you.”

That polite, calm answer gave Derek exactly the excuse

he had been digging for.

“See? He's fine!” Derek exclaimed.

Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life. He

pointed toward the center of the training mat.

“Come on, Marcus.”

“No.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“No.”

“Not even striking. No punching. Just grappling.”

“No.”

“What, you scared? Thirty seconds to show the kid

here how it's done.”

Marcus looked at him. He looked at the arrogance

radiating off the young champion. He looked at the

championship belt resting on the chair. He looked at Lucas,

who was practically shrinking into the floor.

And then, Marcus looked at the digital clock on the

wall.

He carefully set his spray bottle on top of the mop

bucket.

He reached down and slowly took off his shoes.

He stood up, wearing only his faded socks.

“Thirty seconds?” Marcus asked, his voice deathly

calm.

“Yep,” Derek grinned, popping his neck.