Derek laughed.
“You're a janitor.”
Jerome said nothing.
Derek turned toward the class.
“Did you hear that?”
Nobody answered.
“He doesn't have anything to prove.”
Derek laughed again.
“That's hilarious.”
He walked away.
Jerome began mopping.
The students slowly dispersed.
The lights over the training floor buzzed.
And nobody noticed that an old framed photograph hanging in the academy hallway had begun to shake slightly from the vibrations of the closing door.
The photograph showed a much younger Walter Griffin standing beside a group of martial artists.
And directly behind him stood a twenty-five-year-old Jerome Fisher.
Wearing a black belt.
Smiling.
But the photograph was several years old.
And almost nobody remembered it existed.
Jerome finished cleaning at 11:47 p.m.
He locked the back door.
Turned off the lights.
Checked the bathrooms twice.
Then he sat alone on the front steps.
The parking lot was nearly empty.
He pulled an old cell phone from his pocket.
There was one voicemail.
He pressed play.
His mother's voice filled the quiet night.
“Jerome?”
A pause.
“It's your mother.”
Another pause.
“You said you'd come tomorrow.”
Jerome closed his eyes.
“I miss your father.”
The message ended.
Jerome stared at the screen.
His mother had been asking for his father more often.
His father had been dead for eleven years.
Jerome rubbed his face.
Then stood.
He walked toward his battered gray pickup truck.
Before opening the door, he looked back at the academy.
The building was dark.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
He whispered to himself.
“Tomorrow.”
Then he drove away.
He had no idea that tomorrow would change everything.
The Man Who Refused to Fight
The next evening, Derek was waiting.
Jerome knew it the moment he entered the building.
Derek was standing beside the reception desk with three other advanced students.
They were laughing.
One of them held a phone.
Jerome walked past them.
“Evening.”
Nobody answered.
He pushed his cleaning cart toward the training hall.
Derek followed.
“Hey, black belt.”
Jerome stopped.
Derek smiled.
“Remember me?”
Jerome looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Derek folded his arms.
“I thought about our conversation last night.”
Jerome waited.
“I decided you don't get to say no.”
Jerome's expression remained calm.
“You do.”
Derek laughed.
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“You work here.”
Jerome looked at him.
“And?”
“And that means you're part of the academy.”
Jerome shook his head.
“My employment has nothing to do with your training.”
Derek smiled.
“You really don't understand.”
He pointed toward the training floor.
“This place is for fighters.”
Jerome glanced around.
“Then why are you standing in my way?”
One of the students laughed.
Derek's face hardened.
“You think you're funny?”
“No.”
“You think you're better than me?”
“No.”
“Then prove it.”
Jerome sighed.
“Derek.”
The young man blinked.
It was the first time Jerome had said his name.
“Don't do this.”
Derek grinned.
“You know my name.”
“I know everyone's name.”
That answer irritated him even more.
“You've been watching.”
“I work here.”
“You've been watching me train.”
Jerome didn't answer.
Derek stepped closer.
“Tell me something.”
Jerome waited.
“Do you think you could beat me?”
Jerome looked directly into his eyes.
“No.”
Derek smiled.
“There we go.”
Jerome continued.
“Because I don't fight people who haven't learned when to stop.”
The room went silent.
Derek's face reddened.
“Fight me.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
Jerome picked up a spray bottle.
“I need to clean the mirrors.”
Derek grabbed his shoulder.
Jerome stopped.
Everyone noticed.
The atmosphere changed.
Jerome slowly looked at Derek's hand.
Then at Derek.
“Take your hand off me.”
Derek smirked.
“Or what?”
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then Jerome gently moved.
His hand caught Derek's wrist.
There was no dramatic movement.
No punch.
No kick.
Jerome simply rotated Derek's wrist a few inches.
Derek's face changed.
His knees bent involuntarily.
“Let go.”
Jerome released him immediately.
Derek stepped backward.
Nobody laughed.
Jerome picked up the spray bottle.
“Don't touch me again.”
Then he walked away.
Derek stared at his own wrist.
He had felt it.
Not strength.
Control.
Perfect control.
He looked at the other students.
“Lucky.”
Nobody answered.
Derek's pride had been bruised.
And wounded pride could be more dangerous than anger.
That night, he made a decision.
He would force Jerome to fight.
The opportunity came three days later.
The academy's owner, Walter Griffin, was away at a national seminar.
His senior instructor, Marcus Bell, had taken the evening off.
The advanced class ended early.
Only nine students remained.
Derek looked toward Jerome.
The janitor was wiping the edge of the mat.
Derek walked onto the floor.
“Everyone stay.”
Jerome looked up.
Derek smiled.
“Tonight, we're going to settle something.”
Jerome shook his head.
“I'm working.”
Derek ignored him.
He turned toward the students.
“Everybody knows I challenged him.”
Nobody responded.
“So let's make it simple.”