"God help us all."
Ethan Caldwell stood in the center of the mat, rolling his shoulders and grinning at the growing crowd outside the fence. Within minutes, the training session had turned into an event. Students abandoned their drills. Visiting fighters crowded around the barrier. Someone raised a phone to record.
For Ethan, the humiliation he had suffered earlier was already becoming a distant memory. This was his opportunity to restore his reputation, and his opponent could hardly have been more convenient.
He stood several feet away, waiting while Coach Raymond Shaw approached the cage with a pair of spare training gloves.
"Put these on," Raymond said.
Daniel looked at the gloves.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not letting you step in there barehanded."
"That's sensible."
Raymond didn't appreciate the attempt at humor.
He held out the gloves. Daniel accepted them and began wrapping his hands with strips of protective cloth that had been left beside the equipment rack.
Raymond watched every movement.
The way Daniel tightened the fabric. The way he protected his knuckles without restricting his wrist. The way he checked the fit by closing his fist once, then opening it.
Six years earlier, Raymond had watched Daniel prepare for a fight in a dressing room beneath a stadium in Chicago. Daniel had been twenty-nine then, younger and stronger, but his preparation had been almost identical.
"Daniel," Raymond said quietly.
"Not now, Coach."
He hadn't been called Coach by Daniel in years.
"Listen to me," Raymond insisted. "You don't owe this kid anything."
"I know."
"Then walk away."
Daniel finally looked at him.
"Would he let me?"
Raymond glanced at Ethan.
The young man was busy entertaining the spectators, making exaggerated gestures toward Daniel's folded work shirt.
"Look at this," Ethan called. "He even folds his uniform like he's preparing for retirement."
Daniel turned back to Raymond.
"There's your answer."
"He's twenty-four. He's talented, but he's reckless. If you let him provoke you, he'll do something stupid."
"Then teach him not to."
"That's not your responsibility."
Daniel's expression changed.
"Maybe that's the problem," he said.
Before Raymond could respond, Ethan clapped his hands.
"Can we start? Some of us have actual training to do."
Raymond stepped away from the cage.
"Three minutes," he announced. "Light contact. No elbows, no knees to the head, no strikes after the break. If either fighter loses control, I stop the round. Understood?"
"Understood," Daniel replied.
"Absolutely, Coach."
Raymond signaled the timekeeper.
Ethan immediately raised his guard and began circling. He expected Daniel to charge, perhaps to throw a clumsy punch or make some desperate attempt to prove himself.
His feet were shoulder-width apart. His knees were relaxed. His hands rested at a natural height, ready without appearing defensive.
"Come on," he said. "You wanted this."
Daniel didn't move.
Ethan flicked a jab toward his face.
Daniel shifted his head a few inches.
Ethan threw another jab, faster this time.
Daniel moved again.
Just a small adjustment that left Ethan punching empty air.
He stepped forward with a combination of three punches. Daniel retreated one step, turned his shoulder, and allowed the final strike to slide past him.
Then he tapped Ethan lightly on the chest with his lead glove.
But Ethan stumbled backward because he had committed his weight to an attack that no longer had a target.
"Sloppy," Daniel said.
"What did you say?"
"Your feet."
Raymond shouted, "Control!"
The young fighter threw a right hook.
Daniel ducked beneath it, moved to the outside, and placed his glove against Ethan's ribs.
Tap.
He withdrew before Ethan could turn.
Someone near the fence whispered, "What just happened?"
Marcus looked from Ethan to Daniel.
He had trained with Ethan for three years. He knew the young man's strengths, weaknesses, and habits. Ethan was fast, powerful, and capable of overwhelming inexperienced opponents with relentless pressure.
But Daniel had made him look slow.
Worse, Daniel didn't seem to be trying.
"Stop running!"
Daniel glanced at the clock.
"One minute gone."
"Fight me!"
"I am."
"No, you're dodging!"
"That's part of fighting."
He charged with a heavy right hand, intending to end the exchange with one spectacular punch.
The instant Ethan committed, Daniel pivoted.
His left hand caught Ethan's wrist. His right glove touched the side of Ethan's shoulder. A subtle turn of Daniel's hips redirected the young fighter's momentum.
Ethan found himself stumbling past his opponent.
Daniel released him immediately.
Ethan managed to stay upright, but his shoes scraped across the mat.
It was an old counter Daniel had developed during his early professional career, a technique designed to exploit an opponent's forward momentum without relying on superior strength.