Derek laughed, a harsh, incredulous sound. "Excuse me? Are you talking back to me? You want to try something, old man? I will snap you in half."
"You teach your students to drop their left hand when they throw a right hook," Marcus said evenly, his voice carrying clearly through the silent gym. "You rely on your athletic ability to compensate for terrible footwork. And you lean entirely too far forward on your double-leg."
The silence in the room deepened. The students stared in shock. Chad, the star pupil, walked over to the edge of the mat, his mouth agape.
Derek’s face went from red to a dangerous shade of purple. The sheer audacity of the janitor critiquing his technique in front of his entire academy was a level of disrespect he could not fathom.
"You want a lesson?" Derek hissed, stepping onto the mats and waving Marcus forward. "Come on. Step on the mat. Let's see what the janitor knows."
Marcus unzipped his coveralls. He let the heavy blue fabric fall to his waist, revealing a faded gray t-shirt underneath. He stepped out of his work boots. Barefoot, he walked onto the pristine training mat. He didn't look angry. He looked completely at peace.
"Last chance to beg for your job and walk away," Derek threatened, raising his hands into a loose, arrogant guard.
Marcus said nothing. He simply settled into a stance. It was a stance the younger fighters didn't recognize, rooted in traditional boxing and Muay Thai, perfectly balanced, defensive, impenetrable.
Derek, fueled by ego and rage, lunged forward. He threw a lightning-fast one-two combination—a jab followed by a heavy right cross aimed directly at Marcus’s jaw. It was a combination that had knocked out professionals.
Marcus didn't flinch. As Derek’s right hand shot forward, Derek dropped his left hand exactly as Marcus had predicted.
Marcus didn't just block; he slipped. He moved his head barely an inch, letting Derek’s fist sail harmlessly over his shoulder. In the same fluid motion, Marcus pivoted on his lead foot, rotating his hips with explosive torque. He drove a devastating left hook perfectly into the exposed liver on Derek’s right side.
The impact sounded like a baseball bat hitting wet leather.
Derek’s eyes went wide. All the air violently rushed out of his lungs. The human body cannot simply power through a perfect liver strike; it is a physiological override. Derek’s knees instantly buckled. His hands dropped, and he let out a strangled, agonizing wheeze.