"Look at me when I'm talking to you, old man," Derek demanded.
Marcus slowly raised his head. His dark eyes met Derek’s icy blue ones. There was no fear in Marcus’s eyes, only a deep, weary resignation. This infuriated Derek even more. He wanted fear. He demanded submission.
"You're a loser," Derek spat. "You've been scrubbing my floors for three years, smelling my success, watching real men do things you could never dream of. And you can't even take out the trash right."
Derek raised his foot—the same foot that had knocked out dozens of men in the cage—and forcefully kicked Marcus in the chest.
It wasn't a full-power strike meant to injure, but it was hard enough. The sole of Derek’s foot caught Marcus squarely on the sternum. Marcus was caught off balance. He tumbled backward, crashing hard onto the gym floor, the breath knocked out of his lungs.
A collective gasp echoed through the gym. The students shifted uncomfortably. A few looked away in shame, but no one said a word. No one stepped forward. Derek was a millionaire, a local celebrity, the boss. Marcus was just a janitor.
Derek stood over Marcus, hands on his hips, a smirk playing on his lips. "Get up, clean up your mess, and get out of my sight. I'll decide tomorrow if you still have a job."
Marcus lay on the cold concrete for a moment. He stared up at the bright fluorescent lights. In that brief span of seconds, a violent storm raged inside his mind. He thought about Maya. He thought about the rent due on Friday. He thought about the jar on the counter. The logical, beaten-down part of him screamed to apologize, to grovel, to keep his head down and survive.
But another part of him—a part that had been asleep for twenty years, a part that had spent thousands of hours shadowboxing in the dark—awoke.
It wasn't pride that pulled Marcus to his feet. It was a cold, absolute clarity.
Marcus didn't scramble up. He rose slowly, fluidly. He dusted off his coveralls. He didn't look at the garbage. He looked directly at Derek Stone. The weary, broken demeanor was gone. The slouch in his shoulders had vanished. Marcus stood straight, balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet, his chin tucked slightly, his hands resting naturally at his sides.
"You shouldn't have done that," Marcus said. His voice was no longer a mumble. It was deep, calm, and terrifyingly steady.