Marcus watched from the doorway.
"You're going to hurt yourself."
Dylan did not stop.
"Good evening to you too."
"Your shoulder still bothering you?"
"No."
Marcus looked at the bag.
"Then why are you protecting it?"
Dylan threw another punch.
"Can we not do this?"
"Sure. We can talk about the video."
Dylan stopped.
He turned.
"Everyone wants to talk about the video."
"That's because you keep bringing it up."
Dylan wiped his face with a towel.
"I want another round."
"With Walter?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I know what happened."
Marcus crossed his arms.
"Tell me."
"He caught me off guard."
"Maybe."
"I wasn't expecting him to move like that."
"That sounds reasonable."
Dylan frowned.
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm supposed to be honest."
Dylan threw the towel onto a bench.
"He's an old janitor."
Marcus's expression hardened.
"His job doesn't tell you what he knows."
"Come on."
"No. You come on."
Marcus stepped into the room.
"You've been training for years. You have a good record. People respect your skill. But you walked into a charity event and decided that a man who was doing his job existed to entertain you."
Dylan looked away.
Marcus continued.
"You didn't ask him to demonstrate. You pressured him. You made him the joke. Then he showed you one movement, and now you can't sleep because people saw you fall."
Dylan's face flushed.
"That's not what happened."
"Then tell me what happened."
Dylan said nothing.
Marcus lowered his voice.
"You're a good fighter. But you're becoming a poor example."
Dylan looked at him sharply.
"You think I don't know that?"
"Do you?"
The silence between them grew.
Finally, Dylan picked up his water bottle.
"Where is he?"
Marcus shook his head.
"Leave him alone."
"I just want to talk."
"Then start by respecting his answer."
Dylan turned toward the heavy bag.
Marcus watched him for another moment.
Then he left.
He found Walter in the front corridor, checking the emergency exit.
"He's here," Marcus said.
Walter nodded.
"I know."
"He's asking for you."
"I know."
"Are you going to speak with him?"
Walter tested the door handle.
"Not tonight."
Marcus leaned against the wall.
"Do you think he will leave it alone?"
Walter looked at him.
"No."
"Then what happens?"
Walter checked the lock.
"That depends on what he chooses to do."
Marcus studied him.
"You sound like you know him better than I do."
Walter's face softened.
"I don't know him."
He turned the key and listened for the lock to engage.
"But I know the road he's standing on."
Marcus wanted to ask what he meant.
Before he could, Walter picked up his tool bag and walked away.
At 8:30, the building began to empty.
The basketball teams left.
The children from the movement class were collected by their parents.
The final group of athletes finished training.
Dylan remained in the gym long after the others had gone.
He sat alone on the edge of the mat, watching the video on his phone.
He replayed the moment Walter took his wrist.
Again.
And again.
He paused the clip.
He zoomed in.
He studied the old man's feet.
Then he watched the movement at half speed.
For the first time, he noticed something he had missed.
Walter's left foot had moved before Dylan's grip was fully established.
Not after.
Before.
The old man had read the direction of his weight before the movement began.
Dylan replayed it.
He tried to imitate the motion with his own hand.
It did not work.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His shoulder ached.
He lowered his arm.
The room was quiet.
He looked at the screen.
Then at the empty corridor.
Somewhere in the building, Walter Bell was probably locking a storage cabinet or taking out the trash.
Dylan had spent six years training in that pavilion.
He knew the coaches.
He knew the competitors.
He knew the people who attended every exhibition.
But he knew almost nothing about the man who cleaned the floors.
That thought unsettled him.
He stood and walked toward the front entrance.
As he passed the maintenance office, he noticed the door was slightly open.
A small photograph sat on the desk.
It showed Walter as a much younger man.
Dark hair.
A leaner face.
A black martial arts uniform.
His right hand rested on the shoulder of another man.
Behind them stood a row of athletes.
The photograph was old and slightly faded.
Dylan stopped.
He looked at it.
Then he looked at the name written along the bottom edge.
WALTER BELL — NORTH AMERICAN COMBAT SYSTEMS SEMINAR, 1994.
Dylan frowned.
He had never heard of North American Combat Systems.
He leaned closer.
There was another line beneath the photograph.
A name.
Not Walter Bell.
A name that meant nothing to him.
W. BELL — SENIOR INSTRUCTOR.
Dylan heard a door close behind him.
He turned.
Walter stood at the end of the corridor.
The old man looked at the photograph.
Then at Dylan.
Neither spoke.
Finally, Walter walked forward and stood in the doorway.