Thomas kept cleaning.
For a long time, he had promised himself that he was finished solving other people's problems.
The bell rang.
For thirty seconds, Preston behaved.
Then his ego became bored.
His punches grew harder.
Greg backed toward the cage, his arms tight against his body.
“Relax,” Preston said.
Greg tried.
Preston changed levels and fired upward.
His glove caught Greg directly across the nose.
The sound was sharp.
Greg stumbled.
Blood immediately ran between his fingers.
“Damn it,” Preston muttered.
Not because Greg was hurt.
Because blood had splashed across the clean mat.
Dmitri rushed inside.
“I said light!”
“He walked into it.”
Greg sat against the cage.
Thomas quietly rolled his bucket toward them.
He handed Dmitri clean towels.
“Forward,” Thomas said. “Don't tilt his head back.”
Dmitri nodded.
“Thanks, Tom.”
Thomas cleaned the blood.
Tight circles.
Disinfectant.
Paper towels.
Biohazard container.
Preston approached.
“Get all of it, Chief. Don't want anybody slipping.”
Thomas said nothing.
He finished cleaning.
As he turned, his shoulder barely brushed Preston's arm.
“Hey.”
Thomas stopped.
“Watch it, mop boy.”
Thomas inhaled.
Then exhaled.
“Sorry.”
There was no emotion in the word.
He walked away.
Behind him, Preston laughed.
“That's what I thought.”
Thomas continued pushing the bucket.
He did not look back.
He had learned long ago that anger was expensive.
And he had already paid for enough of it.
Three Rounds
By four o'clock, the gym was nearly empty.
Thomas pushed a laundry cart from the locker room toward the loading dock.
Preston stepped directly in front of him.
Cole and Brett were near reception.
Dmitri was balancing the register.
Thomas stopped the cart.
Preston placed one hand on it.
“You never really apologized.”
Dmitri looked up.
“Preston, let it go.”
“I'm talking to him.”
Thomas looked at the laundry.
“I need to take these towels out.”
Preston smiled.
“Say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Harrington.’”
Cole laughed.
Thomas finally looked at Preston.
Not quickly.
Not aggressively.
Just completely.
His pale blue eyes were still.
There was no fear in them.
No anger.
No submission.
Nothing Preston understood.
“I’m not going to say that.”
The smile vanished.
Preston shoved the cart.
It rolled backward and slammed into the wall.
A framed fight poster fell and shattered.
Dmitri came around the desk.
“What is wrong with you?”
“He has an attitude problem.”
“He's doing his job.”
Preston looked at Dmitri.
“You taking his side?”
“Yes.”
Preston's expression hardened.
“Then maybe Dad stops paying for the fight team.”
Dmitri froze.
“You lose the sponsorship,” Preston continued, “you lose half your competitors. Maybe you lose this place.”
Silence settled across the reception area.
Thomas looked at Dmitri.
He recognized the expression on the man's face.
A decent man trapped by circumstances.
Thomas had seen that expression in far worse places than a luxury gym.
It still bothered him.
“What do you want?” Thomas asked.
Preston turned.
The satisfaction returned.
“A lesson.”
He pointed toward the cage.
“You and me.”
Dmitri stared.
“What?”
“Three rounds.”
Preston looked at Thomas.
“You survive, I double whatever Dmitri pays you this week. Dad keeps the sponsorship.”
“No,” Dmitri said.
Preston ignored him.
“What do you say, mop boy?”
Thomas looked toward the cage.
Six years earlier, Thomas Decker had returned from the final deployment of a military career that had consumed most of his adult life.
The last mission had been the one that ended everything.
An ambush.
Three men lost.
Metal buried deep in Thomas's thigh.
Months of rehabilitation.
More funerals.
More medals he never wanted.
After retirement, Thomas deliberately made himself invisible.
No leadership jobs.
No security consulting.
No tactical instruction.
No veterans' speaking tours.
He wanted quiet.
He wanted ordinary.
He wanted floors that became clean when you cleaned them.
“Tom,” Dmitri said quietly, “don't.”
Thomas looked at Preston.
He did not see a trained fighter.
He saw a spoiled young man who had never experienced a boundary money could not move.
“Three rounds?” Thomas asked.
Preston smiled.
“Three.”
Thomas unbuttoned his work shirt.
Dmitri stared.
“Thomas.”
“No protective gear,” Thomas said.
Preston laughed.
“You serious?”
Thomas removed the shirt.
Then the undershirt.
The laughter stopped.
Thomas did not have a bodybuilder's physique.
He was lean.
Dense.
A little worn by age.
But his torso told a story.
A puckered scar beneath the left collarbone.
Jagged marks across his side.
A long surgical line near his hip.
Old injuries layered over older ones.
Preston stared for half a second.
Then his ego rescued him.
“Scars don't win fights.”
Thomas said nothing.
He opened a maintenance locker.
Inside was an old pair of grappling shorts and frayed black hand wraps.
Dmitri had occasionally seen Thomas conditioning alone after closing.
He had never asked why.
Now he wished he had.
Thomas wrapped his wrists.