purple bruise on his cheekbone, fighting back
tears of frustration and pain.
"Come on, is that everyone?" Julian yelled,
pacing the center of the mat like a caged tiger.
Sweat dripped from his chin, his chest heaving
as he pumped his fists. "Who's next? Don't tell
me you're all tired already. This is supposed to
be a fight camp, not a knitting circle!"
His entourage chuckled nervously, but no
one stepped forward. They had all seen what
happened to Thomas. Julian was not looking to
practice; he was looking to hurt someone. He
thrived on the fear in their eyes. He stood in the
center of the room, soaking in the terrified
silence, his ego inflating with every passing
second. He felt like a god among mortals,
completely untouchable, unmatched in skill and
power.
Off to the side, near the entrance to the
locker rooms, Elias was quietly wringing out a
heavy cotton mop into a yellow plastic bucket.
The squeak of the wringer was the only sound in
the dead-silent gym. He kept his eyes lowered,
Julian, bored and buzzing with adrenaline,
scanned the room for his next source of
entertainment. His eyes landed on the solitary
figure of the janitor. A cruel, arrogant smile
spread across Julian's face. He nudged one of his
friends, pointing toward Elias.
"Hey, check this out," Julian whispered, loud
enough for the front row of students to hear. He
unfastened the velcro strap of his left sparring
glove, pulling it off with his teeth.
"Hey! Old man!" Julian barked, his voice
echoing sharply against the mirrors.
Elias did not flinch. He slowly finished
wringing out the mop, set it upright against the
wall, and turned his head. His dark eyes, calm
and infinitely deep, met Julian's aggressive glare.
"Can I help you, son?" Elias asked, his voice a
rich, resonant baritone that commanded an
unexpected gravity.
Julian scoffed at being called 'son'. "You've
been lurking around here for years, watching us
train," Julian said, taking a few steps toward the
edge of the mat. "Sweeping up our sweat.
Breathing our air. I figure some of it must have
rubbed off on you by now, right?"
The dojo remained deathly quiet. The
students exchanged nervous glances. They knew
Julian was a bully, but picking on the elderly
janitor felt like crossing a line, even for him.
"I just clean the floors," Elias said softly,
turning back to his bucket. "I'll be out of your
way shortly."
"No, no, don't run away," Julian sneered. He
tossed his sweaty, red leather sparring glove
across the room. It landed with a wet smack
right at Elias's boots. "Put that on. Let's see what
the old man's got. Consider it a private lesson.