"I'm not forcing him to do anything, Coach!" Leo sneered, shaking Martinez off with a violent jerk. "He can walk away right now. He can take his mop and go clean the locker rooms. But if he wants to play in the big leagues, he has to pay the admission fee. Well, pops? What’s it going to be? Are you a man of your word, or just another old talker?"
Arthur looked down at the weathered wooden handle of his broom. He ran his calloused palm along its grain, feeling the history embedded in the wood. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned the broom against the nearest steel pillar.
He didn't remove his work jacket. He didn't wrap his hands. He simply stepped forward into the open space of the gym floor, standing directly opposite the undefeated champion of the world.
"Ten punches," Arthur said softly, his voice calm as a deep well. "No more, no less."
Chapter Four: The Arena of Judgment
A circle formed instantly. Fighters, trainers, cutmen, and gym rats crowded around, pressing in tight to witness what was expected to be a brutal, humiliating spectacle. Phones came out of pockets, glowing with recording lights. To everyone in the room, the outcome seemed as certain as the rising sun: a devastating combination from a world-class professional would leave the elderly custodian crumpled on the concrete within three seconds.
Leo’s trainer, a sharp-tongued strategist named Miller who usually kept Leo grounded, crossed his arms and shook his head in disgusted disbelief. "You've gone too far this time, kid. When he gets hurt, don't look at me to bail you out."
"Shut up and watch," Leo whispered, a feral grin plastered across his face. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, feeling the familiar, intoxicating rush of adrenaline. He dropped his left hand low to bait the opening, his muscles coiled like steel springs.
"Whenever you're ready, grandad," Leo taunted, shifting his weight. "Remember, hands in your pockets. Let's see that old-school defense."
Arthur slipped both hands casually into the deep front pockets of his faded denim overalls. He did not adopt a traditional boxing stance. He didn't tuck his chin, raise his shoulders, or shift his feet into a defensive pivot. He simply stood with a natural, loose posture, his weight evenly distributed, his spine straight but unforced, looking less like a combatant and more like a grandfather waiting patiently for a bus in the rain.
"Whenever you like, Mr. Vance," Arthur murmured.
The air in the gym grew so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Pop.
Leo exploded forward with blinding, terrifying speed. His first strike was a razor-sharp left jab aimed straight at Arthur’s nose—a punch that had broken the noses of European champions and left sparring partners tasting copper.