Bryce turned, a sneer forming on his face as he took in Garrett’s dusty boots, oil-stained jeans, and faded flannel. "Whoa, hey, no street shoes on the mat, buddy," Bryce mocked, playing to his live stream. "You must be the dad. Great job raising a tissue paper kid."
Garrett ignored Bryce completely. He knelt beside Milo, his rough hands gently inspecting the boy’s shoulder. "It’s popped out, buddy. Dislocated," Garrett said, his voice softer than velvet. "Take a deep breath. Look at me. Only at me." Milo met his father’s eyes. Garrett’s hands moved with practiced, terrifying speed. A quick, sharp manipulation, a sickening pop, and the shoulder was back in its socket. Milo gasped, the sharp pain dulling to an ache. "Go sit on the bench, Milo," Garrett whispered. "Close your eyes if you want."
Bryce felt his spotlight slipping. He needed to assert dominance. He grabbed a clipboard from an assistant—the gym’s standard liability waiver. "You think you can just walk onto my mat?" Bryce shouted, storming toward Garrett. He violently threw the clipboard at Garrett’s feet. It shattered against the heavy steel-toed boots. "You don't like how I teach your kid, Delivery Boy?" Bryce mocked mercilessly, pointing at Garrett’s clothes. "Sign the paper. Step up. Let’s see what kind of man you are. Let’s show the internet how the weak breed the weak."
Chapter 11: The Waiver
The gym was dead silent, save for the hum of the cameras. Everyone waited for the tired, working-class dad to back down, to apologize, or to threaten to call the police.