Thomas turned his head slowly toward Cole and Brett.
The two young men immediately took two steps backward, slamming their shoulders against the front glass door.
“Help your friend up,” Thomas said quietly.
Cole scrambled forward, barely able to keep his footing on the smooth floor. He grabbed Preston under his shoulders, hauling the gasping, terrified young man to his feet. Brett opened the front door, and together they half-carried, half-dragged Preston out into the cool evening air, letting the glass door slam shut behind them.
The gym was completely silent again.
The fading orange sunlight was replaced by the cold, buzzing hum of overhead fluorescent lights.
Dmitri remained standing near the counter, his hands deep in his pockets, staring at Thomas as if he were looking at a ghost.
“Tom...” Dmitri said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “Where... where did you learn to move like that?”
Thomas didn't answer the question. He walked over to the concrete wall, picked up the overturned canvas laundry cart, and set it upright on its wheels.
He bent down, picked up the scattered towels one by one, folded them neatly, and placed them back inside the bin.
“I’ll get these into the wash now, Dmitri,” Thomas said, his voice returning to its familiar, low, unassuming tone. “The bleach cycle takes forty minutes. I’ll make sure the back door is locked before I leave.”
Dmitri watched him for a long moment. He looked at the floor where the conflict had occurred, then at the heavy laundry cart, and finally at Thomas’s hands—the calloused, scarred hands that he had seen scrub toilets, fix door frames, and mop up sweat for two years.
Dmitri swallowed hard. He thought about his gym's finances. He thought about Richard Harrington’s inevitable phone call when Preston went home and complained. He thought about the rent.
And then he thought about the utter, terrifying stillness in Thomas’s eyes when he held a man’s life in his hands.
Dmitri took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing. He nodded slowly.
“Okay, Tom,” Dmitri said softly. “Thank you.”
Thomas pushed the heavy laundry cart down the narrow concrete hallway toward the washing station.
He turned on the industrial faucet, listening to the rushing sound of cold water filling the stainless-steel basin. He poured a precise cup of detergent into the machine, loaded the wet towels, closed the heavy door, and pressed the green start button.
The machine began its steady, rhythmic, humming cycle.
Thomas leaned against the sink, looking at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the washbasin.
His face was the same as it had been six hours ago. Graying hair at the temples. A faint line across his brow. The face of a forty-eight-year-old man who cleaned floors for a living.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fresh, clean hand towel, dried his hands, and picked up his yellow mop.
There was still blood on the cage mat that needed a second pass of disinfectant. The trash cans in the men's locker room were almost full. The mirrors near the heavy bags had fresh handprints on them.
Simple problems. Simple answers.
Thomas stepped out of the laundry room and pushed his bucket back into the gym floor, completely invisible once again.