Instead, Dylan looked toward the audience again.
"That's the difference between knowing a move and knowing what you're doing. You can watch a hundred videos online, but that doesn't make you a fighter."
Marcus shifted his weight.
He knew that speech.
He had heard variations of it from young competitors who had won enough matches to believe that experience was something they possessed rather than something they continued earning.
Dylan turned toward the far wall.
His eyes found Walter.
"Actually, let's try something different."
Rebecca frowned.
"Dylan?"
The fighter pointed toward the old janitor.
"Mr. Bell."
Walter had just stopped beside the storage doorway.
He looked back.
"Yes?"
"Come here for a second."
Walter glanced at Rebecca.
She looked uncomfortable.
"He's working, Dylan."
"Just one demonstration."
Walter placed both hands on the handle of the mop bucket.
"I think you have enough demonstrations."
The audience laughed again.
Dylan grinned.
"Come on. You don't even have to do anything. Just stand there."
Walter looked at him for a long moment.
Then he said, "I would rather not."
The answer was polite.
It was also unmistakable.
Dylan's smile changed.
Only slightly.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm working."
"You're cleaning a floor. It can wait."
"It can wait five minutes," Walter replied. "That doesn't mean I need to stop."
Someone near the bleachers made a low whistle.
Marcus straightened.
He could feel the room shifting.
A few people had stopped smiling.
Dylan took a step closer to the edge of the mat.
"What's the matter, Mr. Bell? Afraid I'll embarrass you?"
Walter did not answer immediately.
He looked at Dylan's feet.
Then at his shoulders.
Then at the young man's right hand.
It was an ordinary glance, brief enough that nobody noticed.
But Marcus did.
He saw Walter's attention settle on Dylan's posture with the precision of a mechanic inspecting an engine.
The old man's expression remained neutral.
"I don't think this is necessary," Walter said.
Dylan laughed.
"That's what people say when they don't know what they're doing."
Rebecca stepped between them.
"That's enough. We need to finish the event."
Dylan raised both hands.
"Fine. I was only trying to make it fun."
He turned toward the crowd, expecting another laugh.
This time, only a few people responded.
The moment had become awkward.
Dylan hated awkwardness more than almost anything.
He looked at Walter again.
"Just tell me something. Have you ever trained?"
Walter's fingers tightened slightly around the mop handle.
"Yes."
The answer was so quiet that several people did not hear it.
Dylan tilted his head.
"What?"
"I said yes."
A teenager near the bleachers lowered his phone.
Marcus took one step forward.
Dylan smiled.
"Where?"
Walter looked at him.
"A few places."
"What does that mean?"
"It means a few places."
Dylan laughed.
"That's not an answer."
Walter glanced toward the corridor.
"I have work to finish."
He began to turn away.
Dylan stepped off the mat.
"Wait."
Walter stopped.
"Come on. One grip. That's all. I'll show everybody how easy it is to control somebody who has never trained."
Marcus moved immediately.
"Dylan. Leave it."
The young fighter did not look at him.
"I'm not hurting anybody."
"Then there's no reason to do it."
Dylan looked back.
"What's wrong with you today?"
"Nothing. I'm trying to keep this event from becoming something it isn't."
Dylan gave a short laugh.
"You're making it weird."
"No. You're making it weird."
A murmur passed through the room.
Walter stood quietly between them.
He could have walked away.
He should have walked away.
But he had noticed Owen watching him.
The teenager was no longer laughing.
He was looking at Walter with a strange mixture of curiosity and concern.
Walter recognized that expression.
It was the expression of a young person who had just discovered that the adults in the room might not be in control of what happened next.
Walter set the mop bucket beside the wall.
Then he removed the small ring of keys from his belt and placed it on top of the cleaning cart.
"All right," he said.
Marcus turned sharply.
"Walter."
The old man looked at him.
"One demonstration."
Dylan's smile returned.
The audience leaned closer.
Walter stepped onto the edge of the mat.
He did not remove his shoes.
He did not stretch.
He did not raise his hands.
He simply stood with his feet shoulder-width apart.
Dylan laughed.
"You're going to do that in work shoes?"
Walter looked down briefly.
"They're comfortable."
More laughter.
Dylan approached.
"Okay. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to take your wrist. You can try to get away. Don't worry, I'll go easy."
Walter nodded.
"All right."
Dylan reached for his right wrist.
His fingers closed around it.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
Then Walter turned his hand.
Not sharply.
Not forcefully.
He rotated his wrist into the narrow space between Dylan's thumb and fingers, stepped half a pace forward, and shifted his weight.
Dylan's grip loosened.
Before he could tighten it again, Walter's other hand touched the young man's elbow.
The contact was almost gentle.