“Keep your hands up, Greg! Move your feet!” Dmitri yelled from the perimeter, his fists clenched tightly at his waist.
“Relax, old man,” Preston sneered, flicking a lightning-fast double jab that forced Greg to cover his face completely, blinding his own field of vision. “You’re freezing up. Open your eyes.”
Greg tried to comply. He dropped his guard slightly to see where the next attack was coming from.
It was precisely the opening Preston wanted. Instead of resetting, Preston changed his levels, loaded his hips, and fired a brutal, rising right hook upward through the gap in Greg’s defensive shell.
It was not a light warm-up punch. It was a fully rotated, explosive strike meant to knock a man out cold.
The sound of leather crushing human cartilage was sharp and sickeningly loud in the quiet gym.
Greg’s head snapped back violently. His knees buckled, and he slid awkwardly down the link fence onto the mat, his hands instantly flying to his face. Blood spilled instantly between his thick fingers, dark red and heavy, splashing across the light-gray canvas floor.
“Damn it, man!” Preston muttered, taking two steps backward and staring down at his glove.
He wasn't looking at Greg’s face. He was looking at the dark red streak smeared across his custom leather gear, his face twisted in annoyance. “Now look at this. He walked straight into the range.”
Dmitri rushed through the cage door, dropping to one knee beside the groaning accountant. “Greg! Keep your head forward! Don't move your nose!” He turned his head and glared up at Preston with genuine, unbridled fury. “I explicitly told you light power, Preston! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“He dropped his hands and stepped into the blow!” Preston snapped defensively, his voice rising as Cole and Brett walked over to support him. “It’s a contact sport, Dmitri. If he’s that soft, he shouldn't be wearing gloves in the first place.”
Greg groaned, gasping for air as blood trickled rapidly down his chin and stained his white cotton shirt.
Thomas quietly rolled his yellow bucket over to the base of the cage. He didn't rush. He didn't make a scene. He simply reached into his side pouch, pulled out a stack of clean, sterile cotton towels, and handed them up through the cage door directly to Dmitri.
“Keep his head tilted slightly forward,” Thomas said softly, his voice calm, flat, and devoid of urgency. “If he tilts it back, the blood will run down his throat and make him vomit.”
Dmitri blinked, instantly following the advice. “Thanks, Tom.”
Thomas didn't respond. He stepped into the cage with a small plastic spray bottle of medical-grade disinfectant, a roll of heavy-duty paper towels, and a red biohazard disposal bag.
He dropped to his knees right beside the pool of blood on the mat. He didn't look at Preston. He didn't look at Dmitri. He simply began cleaning.
He sprayed the surface. He worked in tight, methodical, circular motions, ensuring the chemical compound neutralised the biohazard completely. He wiped the canvas clean, placed the blood-soaked paper towels into the red bag, sealed it with a plastic twist tie, and wiped the area a second time with a dry cloth.
Preston stepped over, towering above Thomas while untying his hand wraps.
“Make sure you get all of it, Chief,” Preston said, his voice dripping with condescension. “We don't want anybody slipping on the mat during real training.”
Thomas finished his second wipe down. He stood up slowly, lifting his bucket with one hand.
As he turned to step through the narrow cage opening, his left shoulder barely—almost imperceptibly—brushed against Preston’s right arm.
Preston immediately stopped unwrapping his hand. “Hey.”
Thomas paused, holding his bucket, his back half-turned.
“Watch where you’re walking, mop boy,” Preston said, stepping into Thomas’s path, his chest puffed out, clearly looking for an outlet for his adrenaline.
Thomas slowly turned his head. He inhaled deeply through his nose, held the air for two seconds, and exhaled softly through his mouth.
“My mistake,” Thomas said quietly.