He dropped his hands, spreading his arms wide. "You see these hands? They're
registered weapons. I'll throw one punch. Just one. If you can dodge it—if you can
just get out of the way before I tap that gray head of yours—I will bow down to you
right here, in front of everyone. Hell, I’ll even clean the toilets for a month."
A nervous murmur rippled through the onlookers. Trevor, the coach, took a step
forward, his frown deepening, but he hesitated, perhaps morbidly curious, or
perhaps believing Ethan just needed to blow off steam and wouldn't actually hurt
the old man.
Marcus stood perfectly still. He slowly set the heavy trash bag on the floor. He
reached up with a calloused hand and removed his faded cap, revealing a head of
closely cropped gray hair. He looked at Ethan, not with fear, but with a profound,
weary sadness.
"I don't want no trouble, son. It's late. Let me finish my work,"
Marcus said softly.
3
"Come on, just one punch! What's the matter? Are you scared, old man?" Ethan
laughed sharply, the sound devoid of warmth. To punctuate his mockery, he threw a
lightning-fast jab that snapped through the air, stopping a mere inch from the
bridge of Marcus's nose. The wind of the punch ruffled the collar of Marcus's shirt.
Marcus didn't blink. He didn't flinch. The profound stillness of the old man was
unnerving, yet it completely eluded Ethan’s arrogant perception.
A heavy sigh escaped Marcus's lips—a sound that seemed to carry the weight of