ring, quietly gathering discarded athletic tape and empty water bottles into his large
black trash bag. The sight of the old man, mundane and servile, grated against
Ethan’s inflated sense of self-importance. An itch for entertainment, a desire to
assert his dominance one last time before leaving, possessed him.
Ethan vaulted over the top rope with practiced ease, landing lightly on his feet,
and purposefully blocked Marcus’s path to the exit. The few remaining gym
members, including Trevor, the head coach—a grizzled veteran with a cauliflower
ear and a perpetual scowl—paused their activities, drawn by the sudden shift in the
room's energy.
2
"Well, well, if it isn't the king of the janitorial closet," Ethan sneered, bouncing
lightly on his toes, his fists raised in a mock fighting stance. "Tell me, Marcus, do you
ever get tired of cleaning up after real men?"
Marcus stopped, his grip tightening slightly on the neck of the trash bag. He
looked up at the young fighter, his expression a blank mask. "I just do my job, Mr.
Caldwell. Excuse me," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone, remarkably
steady.
He attempted to step around Ethan, but the boxer mirrored his movement,
cutting him off again. The cruelty in Ethan's eyes danced under the fluorescent
lights.
"Not so fast, old timer," Ethan taunted, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
"Let's have a little fun. I'll make you a deal—a generous offer, really."