But the laughter that followed came from the wrong direction.
Denny snorted.
Bryce covered his mouth.
Even Cole looked startled.
Trent straightened slowly.
His face had turned scarlet.
Agrippa raised both hands, palms open.
"Stop," he said.
Trent stared at him.
For the first time that afternoon, the young bully was no longer certain who controlled the situation.
And that uncertainty frightened him far more than any insult could have.
Trent recovered by pretending nothing had happened.
"Slippery ground," he announced.
Mason lowered his phone slightly.
"Bro, the ground is dry."
"Did I ask you?"
Mason immediately raised the camera again.
Agrippa stood still, watching them. He could feel his old instincts gathering strength, each one urging him to prepare for the moment when words would no longer be enough.
He resisted them.
The first mistake in a confrontation was believing that it had to end with someone proving something.
The second was believing that the person who struck first was necessarily the person who controlled what happened next.
Agrippa had learned both lessons the hard way.
Seven years ago, he had been known as The Iron Wolf, a name shouted by commentators and printed across promotional posters. He had held the North American middleweight championship, defeated opponents who had seemed unbeatable, and headlined arenas where the crowd's roar shook the lights.
His real name had once meant very little to people outside his hometown.
His fighting name had meant everything.
Then came the injury.
Then the surgeries.
Then the financial disputes with his former management company.
And finally, the night Elena's car was struck by a drunk driver on a rain-slicked highway while Agrippa waited at home with their newborn son.
The life he had built collapsed in a sequence of phone calls, hospital corridors, and paperwork.
For months afterward, he had moved through the world as though he were watching another man's tragedy.
He stopped training.
He stopped answering invitations.
He sold the championship belt to pay medical bills and rent. He left the apartment near the training facility and moved to a smaller place where Larry could grow up without reporters occasionally appearing outside the building.
He found work at the lumberyard.
He learned to make a living with his hands rather than his reputation.
Eventually, he stopped correcting people when they assumed he had never done anything extraordinary.
It was easier that way.
A quiet life had seemed impossible at first.
Now it was the only life he wanted.
"What's the matter?" Trent asked. "You thinking about running away?"
Agrippa returned to the present.
"No."
"Then do something."
"I am."
"What?"
"Trying to make sure your worst decision today doesn't become the worst decision of your life."
Trent stared at him.
Then he laughed, but the sound was thinner than before.
"You really think you're somebody."
"No," Agrippa said. "I know who I am."
That answer irritated Trent because it offered nothing he could attack.
Mason moved closer, searching for a better angle.
"What's the scar from?" he asked.
Agrippa did not respond.
"Hey, I'm asking you a question."
"Then learn to accept that people don't owe you answers."
Mason looked at Trent.
The two shared a glance, and something unspoken passed between them.
The scar was unusual. It curved from the outer corner of Agrippa's left eye toward his cheekbone, pale against his weathered skin. There were other marks too: a small indentation near his right eyebrow, thickened cartilage around both ears, and knuckles that had healed slightly crooked.
Mason had seen those features before.
Not on an ordinary laborer.
On old fight posters.
On highlight reels shared by combat-sports fans.
He zoomed in with his phone.
Agrippa noticed the movement.
"Don't."
Mason paused.
"Don't what?"
"Put my son's face online."
Mason smirked. "Then stop giving me a show."
He tilted the phone toward Agrippa and tapped the screen, apparently searching for something.
A few seconds passed.
His expression changed.
At first, he looked confused. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth slowly opened.
"Wait a second."
Trent turned.
"What now?"
Mason did not answer.
He was staring at the screen.
The image displayed a younger man standing beneath a row of bright arena lights, one hand raised by a referee. His opponent's blood marked the canvas, and a championship belt rested around his waist.
The caption beneath the image read:
AGRIPPA FISHER — THE IRON WOLF — CLAIMS THE NORTH AMERICAN MIDDLEWEIGHT TITLE.
Mason looked up.
Then down again.
Then up.
"No way."
Trent frowned.
"What?"
Mason held out the phone.
"Look at this."
Trent glanced at the screen, unimpressed.
"Some fighter."
"Not some fighter."
Mason swallowed.
"That's Agrippa Fisher."
Cole stepped closer.
"Who?"
Mason stared at him.
"The Iron Wolf. He won the title seven years ago. He was undefeated for almost three years. My older brother used to watch his fights."
Denny laughed uncertainly.
"You're telling me this old guy was a champion?"